I just have to put myself in the shoes of the poor interviewer!
The interview began reasonably well. I was promoting my third book, The Killing Kind, in the Far East and the journalist conducting the interview seemed unusually excited at the prospect of speaking to me. (Actually, any degree of excitement at meeting me is pretty unusual. Even vague disinterest sets my pulse racing a little.)
Niceties exchanged, she began asking her questions, and the interview immediately took a turn down a conversational dark alley.
Journalist: 'You've lived a very interesting life.'
Me (wondering just how boring someone's life would have to be to find mine even remotely interesting): 'Well, I'm not sure about that . . .
Journalist: 'You're being too modest.'
Me (with 99 per cent certainty): 'Er, no I don't think so.'
Journalist: 'I mean, you've saved lives. People would be dead if it wasn't for you.'
Me (wondering if, when I'm napping, I somehow sleepwalk and rescue women from burning buildings, like a kind of somnambulist Superman): 'Look, I - '
Journalist: 'And now Martin Scorsese is making a film of your life.'
Me (briefly entering a fantasy world in which Martin Scorsese does make a film of my life, and it's even duller than his Tibetan movie 'Kundun'): 'I'm not sure that he is, and - '
Journalist: 'Tell me, you must miss driving an ambulance in New York.'
Me (as the light dawns): 'Um, I think you're confusing me with Joe Connelly, the guy who wrote Bringing Out the Dead. I've never even been in an ambulance.'
Journalist (unable to conceal her disappointment): 'Oh. So what do you write...?' "