That seemed to go relatively well. I sound even more nervous than I felt with that microphone under my nose instilling “on air” fever. Still, at least I talked some sense and it was vaguely interesting. I actually got a bit better as the chat went on. You’ll notice the disparity in the tonal qualities of our voices. Tom is, of course, a highly skilled broadcast journalist, so perhaps I’m being a little harsh on myself. It’s just that his erudite articulation contrasts so sharply with my stammering hesitancy. I should have taken a few deep breaths. Two images spring immediately to mind which help to convey my point:
A jet black Porsche 911 purring along Sunset Strip with its top down on a gloriously sundrenched Holywood afternoon; Jon Bon Jovi – impossibly handsome; his luscious blonde locks trailing behind – right arm fully extended; right hand clutching the top of the wheel; left hand gently stroking the thigh of the bronzed, Nordic beach beauty by his side. Smiles.
A miserable, wet Bank Holiday weekend in London. A yellow Reliant Robin juddering and bunny hopping down Peckham High Street; steamed up windows; two beetroot faced occupants; the flat capped Cockney wide boy passenger yelling “Take your foot off the clutch Rodney, you plonker.”
Seriously, though, thank you so much, Tom. You are a lovely man and the consummate professional. I hope to see you again soon. I probably owe you a pint for this!
p.s. Just for clarity’s sake: I am not blind or partially sighted. I am purely short sighted, but this is rectified by spectacles.