It was my birthday, but all I expected, really, was the average working day. You’re told there’s someone to interview. You find out who, where, when. You reach there a little early, expecting to be kept waiting by a celebrity who likes to time his appearances a little late. You ask a few questions. You get answers, sometimes bright, sometimes contemptuous, sometimes bored. When you feel you have enough (or when you feel there’s nothing forthcoming), you take your leave. You switch on the computer. Within a specified word count, you try to convey a sense of the meeting – colour, feel, climate – with the scraps of information you’ve either recorded or jotted down in a chicken-scrawl fully legible only to ancient Egyptians. You scramble to meet the deadline. The average working day, really.
