My outfit is ready. I’m thinking the lacy tights, the little black dress and a single row of pearls. Hair in a topknot of course and perhaps a flash of Chanel rouge lipstick. It’s vital to get it right. The first interview is at 8.20am Monday morning so a glass of Sancerre is out of the question. I shall be sipping café au lait. Tres Chic, Ines would be proud.
I’ve spent the last week in what I can only describe as suspended terror. “But you are such an extrovert” I hear you say. “How can this be?”
Yes I know I’m the one turning cartwheels out of restaurants, first on the dance floor, last one to leave it. Certainly if you’re looking to party I’m your woman. But radio as in AMERICAN RADIO terrifies me. You Americans have been reared on it. You grab the opportunity to be a part of it. You are all stars in the making waiting for your big breakthrough. It’s in your DNA.
I, on the other hand, have been brought up with the art of self-deprecation. Nothing turns the Brits off more than a woman tooting her own toot. (A British expression, no clue what a toot is either.) Also I’ve had a coaching session where it became clear that I am not mistress of the sound bite.
I think it might be a control thing. If you start to waste valuable airtime rambling on they can just unplug you. I hate the thought of being unplugged. Unhinged I may be, but unplugged? How humiliating.
I’m a veteran of two Firewalks and right now I’d rather be about to hang glide, bungee jump or get a Brazilian wax. I’m hoping my alter ego ‘Thérèse the author’ will make an appearance and come to my rescue and there will be a stampede to Amazon. Hopefully this time next week women all across Florida will be sitting on their sun loungers reading Letter From Paris.
Wish me luck.