It saddens me to say that I very nearly renamed this blog post ‘another one bites the dust.’ You see the boyfriend that I wrote about in my first draft is now an ex. If I squeeze one more break up in before the end of the year I’ll have a hat trick for 2014.

It would appear that nothing gets me going like a man who doesn’t know what he wants. 

When I was little, my mother asked my sister and I what we wanted to be when we grew up. My sister wanted to be a wife. I wanted to be a taxidermist. 

My mother found this news perturbing but put it to the back of her mind. I was obsessed with animals and had originally dreamed of becoming a zoo keeper, but growing up in Scotland didn’t lend great weather conditions for daily trips to the zoo. 

And so the Natural History museum became my after school trip of choice where I’d go to stare at glass eyed, motionless walruses for hours on end hoping to catch them moving when I turned around. 

The real problems started when my goldfish died when I was five. Mum was trying to teach me about God and asked me where my goldfish had gone. Instead of heaven, I plumped for the natural history museum. I was convinced that Dot had to gone to be stuffed and was eager to visit him in his new home. After a couple of hours and some distressed pleas to a museum curator I conceded that there were no stuffed goldfish to be found. But there were definitely goldfish to be stuffed.

I mentioned this story to my new boyfriend when we first got together (its a favourite anecdote) and before I knew it he had booked us on a taxidermy course in a graveyard. So far, so macabre.

The day of the course I spent the whole day comforting myself with the knowledge that I’d grown up in the countryside. My dad reminded me that the sight of a pheasant corpse would send me screaming and suggested that I pack a clothes peg.

My boyfriend then reminded me that he had done natural sciences at Cambridge. So he’s really, really good at dissecting stuff.

The venue ended up being moved to Shoreditch’s box park, to a picnic table covered in frozen mouse bodies. After being warned of the dangers of ‘piercing the body sack,’ I went almost clean through the mouse, strewing intestines all over the table and no doubt sparking a future epidemic of hipster e coli. 

The finished product exceeded all expectations and my creation now sits proudly in a bell jar.  

Now all that’s left to do is find another man who’s idea of romance involves a scalpel and a corpse.