So I've decided what my dream job would be.
I would be an interviewer.
No, not a talk show host with seal-like clapping audience, over-long stand-up opening act and only five minutes of piffle with the interviewee.
I would have a room which looked like an open-plan lounge-cum-kitchen (yes "cum" in this context is a legitimate word) with a full bar. The whole place would be rigged with hidden cameras and microphones but, when the guest came, it would be like they were visiting me in my house for tea, or cocktails, or lunch, or whatever.
They would have to stay at least one hour, but could stay longer. The editors would piece everything together afterwards and the guest - not their agent - would have a say on the final cut.
There would also be, in the middle of the coffee table, on the kitchen counter and on the bar, a little plastic cover which could be flipped up, action-movie style, to allow access to two big buttons - one red, one green. The red one would temporarily mute all the microphones so that, if necessary, the guest could whisper something in my ear which would not have a chance of being publicized. The green would fire up the mikes again.
So here's the scenario:
Me: You know, Sandra, there's this adult part of me that is so enjoying our conversation, really likes your work, etc. But there is also the 14 year old inside me that just wants to know what it was like being friends with Madonna.
Sandra: (Laughs) Well, I'll tell you one thing, as long as you push the red button.
Me: Hell, girl, you push it. (Flips up plastic cover on the bar) Go ahead.
Sandra: Bam! (Pushes red button, leans over to whisper in my year. My mouth is slightly open, as if a bit shocked, my eyes are closed, my neck is slightly arched. Sandra pulls back.)
Sandra: Bam! (Pushes green button)
Me: Oh my holy God!
Sandra: I know, right?
Me: I am so turned on right now.
Sandra: Well, we can get it on...
Me: Oh honey, that is so tempting, and so flattering, but I am faithful.
Sandra: Ah well. You can always take the memory home and think about it while you mount your husband tonight.
Me: (clinking martini glass with Sandra's) Amen.