"Discussing your latest work?" the interviewer asked, eagerly tapping her notebook with her pen.
"Well, not exactly," I continued, dodging the fact that I was on the telly to spin Lotto's winning wheel, in the vain hope of making a million dollars, and bookish events were far from my mind.
"I was only on the box briefly and ended up in trouble with my young son, because I failed to display Mr Banana-man, to say hello to all his toys back home," I explained glumly.
"Banana-man?" asked the interviewer, weakly.
"Yes, he's a stuffed knitted doll, dressed in striped pyjamas.
"We accidentally left him in the green room. I had to apologise to all the toys the next day, for forgetting to take him before the cameras."
The literary interviewer clearly thought the conversation was drifting into an unknown dimension and tried to bring the purpose of her visit back into focus.
"Your editor suggests your new work can be described as metafiction in the style of Laurence Stern's Tristram Shandy and it's a very droll read, full of irony?" Deflecting her question for fear of becoming bogged down in the mechanics of sophistry, I reached into the toybox and introduced the correspondent to Banana-man.
She feigned polite interest.
"One of his button eyes has a faint crack - could be serious," I anxiously observed, adding, "I plan to ask my eye surgeon for an opinion; she has very good hands and plays the violin."
"Can you call me a taxi?" my guest interrupted, suddenly deciding to conclude our interview session and closing her notebook with a resounding snap.
"I thought your flight didn't leave until this evening?" I queried.
"I like to be at airports in plenty of time," she responded tersely, reaching for her coat.
