moi, moi, mais rien que moi

[realthog]

Sometimes these things require a while to gestate . . .

Trusty Google Alerts this morning, er, alerted me to the fact that a very long interview with me has just been published on the Conversations with Writers website. Natch, I hurried to have a look, my interest piqued not least by the fact that no one's done an interview with me for at least a few months.

Curiosity deepened as I read. While I recognized my own phrasing, my own opinions, my own bugbears, my own general dimwittery, I had no recollection whatsoever of having given this particular interview. It's actually a pretty good interview, so an ol' egoboo/publicity whore like me had no complaints whatsoever about its publication, you bet.

Neurologically speaking, though, I was becoming a little concerned.

And then I cottoned on. Internal evidence reveals that the conversation (almost certainly an e-conversation) was conducted in the first part of 2002 -- i.e., approaching eight years ago. Why it should have taken so long for the piece to reach publication is a mystery to me, but there ya go. Bearing in mind that a lot of cliches have flowed under the bridge since then, it's kind of unsurprising I've forgotten this effort.

Whatever: If you'd like to know a few of the things I was cheering or whingeing about eight years ago, many of which cheers and whinges I today entirely disown as the self-indulgent ravings of a madman, the interview can, once again, be accessed simply by clicking these words.