Oh, those soul-destroying jobs

Across the world there are some of those who work the work that everyone envies

Oh, those soul-destroying jobs

Across the world there are some of those who work the work that everyone envies. It doesn't have to be the money, but for them nine to five is all honey. They are the disgusting few who leap out of bed, ecstatic that it is a Monday.

There was that much touted contest recently where the winner got to be the caretaker of an oceanic island idyll for an entire year: Picturesque cottage, miles of virgin beach, great mounds of scallops and prawn served up fresh, and one actually got paid to loaf around on a hammock and work hard on a tan. There are a few more jobs that one wouldn't wanna quit : In misty London, being Victoria Beckham's personal lingerie fitter must have its moments. Being a Scotch whisky snifter or a Chateau Margaux wine taster must rank pretty well up there.

And in Rio, the official photographer of the carnival probably goes to sleep pretty happy.

But on the other side of the universe of the job market, and ranking pretty much on the same level as being Personal Proctologist to Idi Amin, there are some blokes who have it so bad, you can't feel merely sorry for them, you have to actually weep. There's this guy called Arvind Jadhav, for one. Being a bureaucrat must be pretty cushy you would think. Unless you were dragged out of obscurity and made the head of Air India in its worst possible time ever. Previous CEO'su00a0 would look out of their Marine Drive Office and reflect on their most tasking chore: deciding where to fly their families and friends first class for the weekend. This man unfortunately, has inherited a bloated dinosaur that is on the verge of folding up its wings forever. On his neck are recalcitrant pilots, thousands of feuding ground staff, and a Minister who's only claim to fame is his Armani jackets. Turning this company around can't really be a smooth flight: jumping out of his 20th floor window must seem more tempting.

Try being the personal hairstylist for the Bachchan, and your CV couldn't get any bleaker! You're faced with nylon instead of locks of hair, you've got to make it look natural, you have a cranky star under all that goo, and no, you can't experiment with the style of the wig. It's looked the same for the last forty years, so your hair styling creativity, be damned.

The editor to Ektaaa (the right amount of a's?) Kapoor serials must be a raving alcoholic by now. Imagine punching in sob scenes and more sob scenes, interjected by scenes of still other women weeping and valiantly telling a story (and not such a great one at that) in the process. It would turn even the strongest man into a word that ends with "k".

Think you have it bad? Just spare a thought for these poor sods, and your sorry cubicle will look a load better.