We at LaughingAtLife.org (not a real company!) have a new part-time vacancy for the role of armchair sleuth.

About this role:

You must be ready, willing and able to deliver timely advice to all suspects and potential victims. (But not too timely. Whilst we agree that forewarned is forearmed, if you’re too good at your job, you may find the number of victims drops alarmingly and you are left with no one to investigate/suspect which will lead to everyone at LaughingAtLife.org moving into the genre of romance. Or maybe Fantasy. No one at LaughingAtLife.org wants that to happen.)

You should be highly experienced in delivering comments such as ‘I knew that was going to happen’ or ‘You could write this (insert offensive vocabulary here) stuff yourself!’

If you have fancied taking part in shows such as Gogglebox, this job could be for you!

Essential qualifications:

Eagle-eyed attention to detail.

Nerves of steel.

Ability to pick locks with a hair pin or safety pin. Or a lock-pick.

Suspicious of everyone and everything. Make remarks such as ‘Oh really?’ and ‘Feel free to be open and honest with me, I will discover the truth in the end.’

Be liable to take all alibis with a pinch of salt. Or snuff.

Able to sniff out spurious motives and supply educated guesswork.

Must possess own monocle or pince-nez or (misplaced) reading glasses (on colour-coded ribbons or fine cord – not too long though, you don’t want someone to strangle you with said reading  glasses cord, do you?).

Should be able to demonstrate a long-established habit of putting your fingertips together in a thoughtful manner before speaking.

You must have a luxurious moustache which you continually fondle or trim or dye a suspiciously dark colour. This role is open to all genders in our commitment to non-discrimination.

Or, failing the moustache, you may have a knitting fetish, and take knitting everywhere with you so that you are ready at a moment’s notice to disarm suspects with your apparent inoffensiveness and the sense of calm rationality that you radiate.

Must be able to recall a long series of villagey anecdotes you can crowbar into any conversation.

Must know the difference between a colonel and a major. Must equally be conversant with the differences between life-peers and the other sort, whatever they are. And of course, ministers of religion and local politicians. Must know how to address a Dowager without causing universal embarrassment at the knitting circle or Ladies’ Bright Hour.

Must be able to shake your head sorrowfully from time to time and say, ‘The world is a very wicked place’ or make some quote about the universal fallibility of mankind.

Additional desirable qualifications:

Knowledge of Shakespeare, Milton and the Bible useful. Possibly also Tennyson. (but we at LaughingAtLife.org do not insist on Tennyson.)

Must not be liable to scream or faint when confronted with a gory scene. Must know exactly where to place fingers on the neck to discover the non-existent pulse of a victim.

Encyclopaedic knowledge of deadly fungi and herbs could come in handy. Ditto household chemicals. Or medicines.

Must be able to dip fingertip in any powdery drug and taste it without dying, and also must be able to identify said drug.

Salary:

There is no salary, just the reward of knowing you did your best, and served your country. Or, failing that, completed at least one matinee jacket for the new baby of a friend of a friend of a friend.

Perks:

Sadly, neither are there any perks. There is no holiday allowance, as every time you go on holiday, someone will do something stupid and you will find yourself ‘embroiled’ in a new murder case. Even if you have a staycation, the grumpy colonel in the Old Manor House will upset someone who will then disguise themselves as a vicar and whack the colonel over the head 47 times with a fire-iron. You will of course realise that this was almost inevitable given the colonel’s generally offensive manner, and also it will be just what happened with Mrs Castle’s little boy in Northampton when he skived off school that day in 1948.

There is no sick pay, apart from the satisfaction that your last days will be repackaged and sold as Mr X’s or Ms Y’s Final Cases with a picture of the actor who plays your role on the front cover.

How to Apply:

Seriously?

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