The day I met the Earl of Essex

It was one of those days when you woke up, turned your head to the open window and saw nothing but blue skies, heard only birdsong and thought to yourself, ‘Why bother’ before turning on your side and going back to sleep. Can there be anything more depressing than the elements caroling the wonder of the world when you’re beating yourself up wondering why you have such a dead-end job and what’s the matter with you and maybe your Dad was right when he said you would come to a bad end?
But you hauled yourself out of bed because you had an Interview. You know what that means, right? Speaking to someone who tells you everything their PR person crafted out for them after you’ve spent hours drafting clever questions that will tell the reader what a witty, learned individual you are….oh, and of course, reveal something about the person you are interviewing.
So you dressed in jeans and a striped business shirt but added a red leather belt to show that you weren’t to be taken completely for granted. You arrived on time and waited for 45 minutes for He Who Must Not Be Named to do the same. He was a writer who had just launched a mega-boring book but it was your job to pretend it was marginally interesting enough for some column inches. He came finally, sat down without looking at you and asked the waiter of the five-star hotel coffee shop to bring him an espresso – without looking at him either. Then he sighed and asked you to go ahead, as though you were the executioner and he was the Earl of Essex.
You began as you meant to go on, softly, feeling like you were bearding a lion in its den. Dared you ask what his “inspiration” was? No, so you asked the next best thing.
“How did you manage to flesh out the character so well?”
The thaw set in immediately as He began to tell you how he had used an infamous jailbird as yes, inspiration, since the man had taken one look at him and decided he had at long last met someone who understood the nature of the crime committed blahdeeblah.
Is He for real? you thought. The jailbird saw a meal ticket and an opportunity to extend his already saturated 15 minutes of fame, is what he saw.
“And I told him that even though he had committed heinous crimes, he had paid for them with all those years behind bars. Now was the time to tell his story with no holds barred.”
The story had been told until you felt your insides churn at the mere mention of the jailbird’s name, but no matter.
So tell me, He asked, after 30 minutes of plugging, “How long have you been a journalist?” Translation: “I bloody well hope they sent a senior moron to interview me.”
“Over 10 years,” you murmured. Translation: “More years than you’ve spent learning the alphabet so that you can bore readers to tears, boyo.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, before getting up. Translation: “Thank God that’s over. Now for my spa treatment.
“Absolutely,” you said. Translation: “Thank God that’s over. Now for my real interview with Katrina Kaif.”