The Daily Prompt says…
On the interview show Inside the Actors’ Studio, host James Lipton asks each of his guests the same ten questions. What are your responses?
- What is your favorite word?
- What is your least favorite word?
- What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
- What turns you off?
- What is your favorite curse word?
- What sound or noise do you love?
- What sound or noise do you hate?
- What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
- What profession would you not like to do?
- If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Well, how can you resist that!
My favourite word without a doubt is “Unfortunately”. It’s a word to get your tongue around. You know that if you are going to start a sentence with it then somebody isn’t going to be smiling by the next time you draw breath. It’s a great word in so many different languages. French is malheureusement, German is unglücklicherweise. That’s three languages where we’ve a five syllable word. Better still, in Basque it is zoritxarrez. I have no idea how that is pronounced but it would definitely be a high scorer in scrabble.
Choosing a least favourite word is far more challenging. It would be easy to go with “no” or one of those other negative chappies and then ruminate on how I like to be positive. Frankly though that would be twee. I think I shall opt for something more onomatopoeic instead. Screech. It brings to mind fingers dragging down a blackboard and also an old girlfriend in a particularly cross mood.
Creatively being turned on? I may have misunderstood the question! I have no spirituality. I am bereft of the qualities that would give me an ethereal view on life but I am rather fond the mundane. The wasp in my first post gave me considerable pause for thought and a long and somewhat tetchy conversation with a pelican in Green Park on Sunday will no doubt inspire another page on here in the future. I really am not fond of bigotry in any form. Does that make me bigoted? It would be good to say that intolerance will not be tolerated but however you phrase it you are left with a dilemma.
There’s only one swear word worth using most of the time (I’m sorry, readers from the USA, curse word just doesn’t do it for me, it makes me think of The Witches of Eastwick), Bollocks! As in “that’s a load of bollocks”, alternatively, as a dressing down, to give a bollocking does imply a satisfactory telling off.
Rain makes a great sound. Bizarrely it reminds me of holidays. I remember being huddled in a caravan as a boy, playing cards with the family whilst listening to the constant drumming of rain on the roof. Likewise I have a remarkably clear recollection of sitting in our ancient three wheel car occasionally looking out to sea. Occasionally because the windscreen wipers were struggling to clear the screen of the deluge that always followed us to whatever part of the world (normally Wales) that we chose for our week of relaxation.
Shall I tell you the noise that I hate? You’ll not have thought of this but you will agree with me once told. It’s the sound of public toilets. Waiting in a queue for the use of a cubicle and listening to the rasping, splashing and farting that is occurring where I am about to place my backside is just loathsome. I have often thought that the only thing worse than a warm toilet seat is a warm, damp toilet seat.
Without a doubt I should be an actor. My mum says that I fibbed from the time I could talk and so I’m obviously cut out for role-play of one sort or another. I spent some time thinking about jobs I wouldn’t like to do. There’s a place in the midlands (of the UK) called the Black Country museum. It’s a living museum in that people act out roles that would have been common during the early part of the industrial revolution. Nail making looks like really tedious work and terribly underpaid. It seems that the smaller nails were made by women who lived in intolerable conditions. There’s another job that would be pretty boring though. Think about a box of matches. There’s probably somebody somewhere who has to dip each match into a pool of pink stuff to get the head on the match. I don’t fancy that.
Allowing for the fact that I’m not a great believer in Heaven and God and all that, I reckon the best thing that He could say to me would be along the lines of “Bloody hell Robby, you’re late, you were due here months ago”.