I was sipping champagne at a reception for the new British Ambassador to France, Sir Peter Westmacott, when my phone rang. It nearly tipped my glass over as I fished my phone out from the inner darkness of my Mulberry bag.
‘What are you doing right now?’ said F.
‘I’m sipping champagne at the British Embassy,’ I said, hoping to impress him.
‘Great. And what are you doing in the next half an hour?’
‘Er,’ I said.
‘Right, give me the adress and I’m sending a taxi round. France 24 want to interview you about your book.’
‘But, wait, stop, um…’ I bumbled. But F was insistent. He knows that I need a bit of bullying when it comes to getting around my last minute nerves. ‘Great, fine, super thanks,’ I said. Then went in search of some nibbles to line my stomach.
And so it was, totally unprepared and a little bit tipsy, that I did my first ever TV interview. Interviews plural I should say. In English and in French. No matter that I was filling in at the very last minute for somebody more important who dropped out. I got 30 full minutes of air time to talk about my baby in French and in English.