“I want to do a blog post,” I say to my friend Vicky, who is sat on the sofa opposite me telling me a rather disgusting story about the time she snapped her little toe. “Right now.”
“OK,” she says, “what about?”
“I’m going to interview you,” I tell her.
“Right ho, off you go then.”
Oh dear, I’m on the spot now. “What shall I ask you?” I ask.
“I don’t know! It’s not my interview,” Vicky quite rightly points out.
“If you were a biscuit, what biscuit would you be?” (It is surely just a matter of time before The Times snap me up for a weekly interview slot).
“I think… I would be…. a party ring! Scary colours on the outside and hollow in the middle,” Vicky temporarily collapses into mild hysteria. “That’s probably not a good biscuit to be is it? Shall I think of another one?”
“No, party ring is fine.”
“But I really think I could be a better biscuit if I tried,” she pleads. “How about a chocolate hobnob? I’m definitely not a bourbon,” she adds seriously, “or a custard cream.”
“Why are you not a bourbon?” I ask, curious.
“I don’t know, I just don’t see myself as a bourbon. A rich tea maybe?”
“Hush now, and let me ask another question.” Vicky pipes down. “How do I even write an interview?” I ask. “Should I just do loads of quotations or write our names or what?”
“I don’t know,” says Vicky, picking up the Guardian magazine for guidance. “Was that one of your interview questions?”
I nod. I don’t feel I’m being terribly probing. I need another question, something not related to snacks or interview technique. My mind is blank, all I can think about is sandwich fillings. This interview lark is hard isn’t it?
“When your debut single first went to number one,” I ask, putting on my best Parky face, “in the same week as the rumours came out about you and that footballer, how did you feel?”
Vicky looks at me blankly for a moment. “Er… proud of my two major achievements? No publicity is bad publicity after all.” Quite right. “It was especially good because I can’t sing, and I was very pleased to be having sex.”
My phone rings and interrupts the flow of what is clearly a serious and insightful interview. “Do you think it will be anyone exciting?” Vicky asks, clearly keen to get away from the subject of her tabloid affairs.
“No,” I say, ignoring it. It stops ringing and suddenly I’m filled with regret. What if it was the BBC, hearing about my move into celebrity style interviews, wanting to commission me for my own Richard and Judy style show?
Oopps. Now we’ll never know.