Summer job: Marilyn Monroe impersonator

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"Sexiness masks a multitude of vocal sins. Just ask Kylie."

'Can you sing Happy Birthday for us?''

This isn't a question that comes up in most job interviews but this wasn't like most jobs.

I was applying for the position of character waitress at a theatre restaurant to pad out my bank balance before uni started. In Canberra in the mid-1990s, there were precious few places to go for wild and crazy nights out and Bobby McGee's had long been a favourite. The restaurant was where I'd tasted my first (and last) Flaming Lamborghini, on my 18th birthday, and the adjoining nightclub was where I'd laid the groundwork for some of my earliest hangovers, as the DJs led revellers in synchronised YMCA dance moves.

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As I said, wild and crazy times.

I knew my voice was never going to win any awards so, faced with the request to sing, I stood up from my seat across the table from the two interviewers, sidled up to the female manager and breathed out my sultriest rendition of Happy Birthday, Mr President.

Sexiness hides a multitude of vocal sins. Just ask Kylie.

''I think we've found our Marilyn,'' she declared when it was over, both of us blushing as she prised my arm from around her shoulders.

Within days, a red satin halter dress and platinum-blonde wig had been retrieved from the depths of a storage cupboard. I stocked up on false eyelashes, red lippy and bobby pins and hired Gentlemen Prefer Blondes from the video shop, comforted by the fact Marilyn Monroe couldn't really sing, either.

Training was rudimentary, covering essentials such as how to carry three plates of barbecued ribs in one hand and how much coulis to squirt around great hunks of cheesecake. There was a song sheet, too, with lyrics to the tunes we would belt out at the hens', bucks! ' and bi rthday parties the joint attracted.

My fellow waiters were a motley bunch of uni students and youngsters embarking on careers in hospitality. Supergirl, a vision in blue Lycra, was studying economics and commerce. Blond Elvis was at art school. And Senior Constable Love Cuffs, who borrowed her costume from her police officer father, planned to join the navy.

Marilyn was a hit with the bucks' groups. One night, I took a phone call from a man whose mate had developed a bit of a crush when he dined a few weeks earlier. His birthday was coming up. Would I go to an Italian restaurant across town and sing him Happy Birthday? As if, I thought, nominating the most astronomical sum I could think of on the spot. ''I'll do it for $200,'' I told him. To this day, it's the quickest cash I've ever made.

I ended up staying at Bobby McGee's for longer than I'd planned. It was just across the road from uni and leading conga lines around the salad bar proved a welcome distraction from piles of books on property law, contracts and torts. The tips weren't bad, either.

The last I heard of Blond Elvis, he'd won the $10,000 first prize in a sculpture competition. Supergirl became an executive at one of the big banks. And Senior Constable Love Cuffs traded one uniform for another, scoring her dream gig in the navy.

Towards the end of my time in the job, Marilyn made fewer appearances. There are only so many times a girl can hear a boozed-up bloke ask where your vent is. Occasionally, I'd wear my friend's old police uniform, though she never did hand over her cuffs. (I bought my own fluffy pink set, which took some explaining when my husband found them recently.)

On days when flirtation was the furthest thing from my mind, I donned an oversized patchwork Raggedy Ann costume, complete with apron and bloomers. All these years later, it still gives me a warm glow to remember that no one ever tried to sexually harass the girl doll with the red yarn wig.

TOMORROW: Child model!