A JOB'S a job as they say, but can someone's true calling really be as a Mixologist?

I haven't made it up, I swear. They had one on that awful Sunday morning programme (which has more fluff on it than an army of bunnies) last weekend. If you haven't already guessed what being a Mixologist entails, let me enlighten you.

He mixes drinks. Forgive me if I'm being a bit blonde, but doesn't that make him a barman? I'm presuming the difference is that he knows the chemical compounds of each ingredient and has worked out an exact formula to predict the eventual taste? Or is that asking a bit much to earn such a grand title?

I watched the great man at work, shoving ice and alcohol into a blender then adding a few bits of fruit before straining it into a glass and giving it another good old shake. Not only did it look like some kind of pureed mush with black bits floating around, a woman could die of thirst by the time he'd faffed around making it.

I've had a go at doing something similar myself mind you, although it involved a large bucket, a few random dusty bottles of alcohol found at the back of the cupboard, some fruit that had seen better days and some flat lemonade. It may not have been as refined as Mr Mixologist's creation, but it lasted a heck of a lot longer.

Clearly, he put his dodgy university drinking experiences to good use and came up with a whole career, which, I suppose, deserves some recognition, but just how long would you, or could you, do something like that before having to get a proper job?

Like becoming a car salesman. I encountered a few last week on a jaunt across the border to visit the Clan, although sadly it wasn't me buying a shiny new motor, it was my mum who has finally decided to trade in her first and only car for something a bit more like a real car.

I shouldn't laugh, it's done her well, all 996cc of it, but I think stepping up a gear, so to speak, is a good idea. The first garage we went to tried to get her to buy a new car on a finance deal that made no sense. In fact, the only sensible words to come out of his mouth were about the rubbish drive on the new Corsa, which he delicately described as akin to "drivin' a bag o' spanners".

So we moved on and went back to the place she bought her car. After looking round for all of a minute, a man by the name of Billy came out to help. We ended up being given a tour of the entire used car area, which included three outdoor lots and an indoor showroom.

An hour later and frozen solid, we ended up back at the car we were admiring when Billy appeared.

After talking my reluctant mother into a test drive - a move which I think he ended up regretting - it was off into the office for a hot chocolate for us and a lot of number crunching on his part. After being presented with every different permutation of costs and a promise (from Billy) to call on Monday, we made our escape, the grand total of three hours later.

It's a hard job being a salesman, harder than being a Mixologist anyway.

The art of selling is not suited to everyone, me, for example. I've had a few jobs over the years, but sales is one I steered well clear of. I just don't have that cutthroat approach you need to have in the high-pressured world of sales. I'm more of a "buy it or don't buy it, it's totally up to you" kind of girl.

Maybe if I refined my drink mixing skills to include a glass instead of a bucket, then I might make it as a Mixologist. Then I could appear on Sunday morning television and make cocktails for everyone at 11am. Although that's maybe a bit early, especially if I've been up till 5am utilising my Mixologist's skills in the local bars.

The more I think about it, the more I reckon I'm better off on the other side of the bar making sure whatever the Mixologist is concocting is of a good enough standard.

Maybe I'll take Billy along. After the length of time we spent with him, I feel like he's part of the family.