little miss crappy technology

I'm interviewing Toni Collette for the international DVD release of Little Miss Sunshine (although it was actually released in the UK a couple of weeks ago). The interview time has already been pushed back two hours, and now we're waiting in the hotel lounge for a few more minutes. There's been a room mix up, something to do with a television crew - and to top it all off, Mzz Collette is a bit ill.

Eventually we're called and six of us, covering different territories, file in to the conference room, introducing ourselves. This room is in the basement of the hotel and has the weirdest goddamn wallpaper. I've never done a "round table" interview in this style before; it feels a little like a seminar at university or something.

Dictaphones are turned on and slid down the table and before I even realise it, a Japanese interviewer has jumped in and is already asking questions. I'm still sitting there, notebook open, pencil in one hand, frantically trying to depress the 'Record' button on my dictaphone. It's not working. I'm scribbling down what's being said in the short hand that only I can understand that I perfected at university (just adds to that back-at-college feeling) and fiddling with the stupid brick of recorder. Finally a click, and the record button is on. Breathing an internal sigh of relief, I add my dictaphone to the small pile in the middle of the table, the journo opposite me kindly pushing it nearer to Toni.

Things are looking up.

And then a high-pitched whistling noise interrupts the room, quickly turning into a shrill scream. The sounds of a dictaphone being murdered. Everyone stops talking.

"What is that??"

"I think it might be one of the dictaphones."

Groan. "Umm, it might be mine. It wasn't working just now-" I volunteer.

The writer nearest the dictaphones is picking them up and holding them near his ear to check.

Sigh. "No, it's that one at the back."

He picks it up. He quickly puts it back down and pushes it towards me with a half-smirk. "Yes, that's the one."

Oh CRAP. "Umm, sorry, sorry guys-"

I fumble quickly for the 'Stop' button. Blessed silence.

Only now I have the rest of the interview and nothing to record it on.

Groan, sigh and double crap.

The Brazilian writer opposite grins at me. "Don't worry, I'll email you the mp3 when it's done."

I smile at him, and try to keep my head down for the rest of the interview, wishing I could throw the dictaphone (stupid Argos) at the weird wallpaper. Oy. Techmology.

The day is only redeemed later (after much wandering in the rain looking for new sneakers and/or an outfit the the fashion week party on Tuesday evening) by a hasty dinner at the Stockpot and two potent cocktails before 8pm.

Oh, and PS. Toni Collette is just as wonderful as you'd expect her to be, even jetlagged and ill.