My favourite interviewees were those who saw the interviews as a chance to make trouble, as an opportunity for mischief and delight. They laughed at the pomposity of the questions, and they poked fun at me. One man — the same man who served me glasses of rum — was reduced to tears of laughter by the interview. Over and over, he repeated: “What stupid questions! Who has ever heard such stupidity?” I laughed too and told him I’d tick the boxes to say that he was happy, to spare us both. “Good idea!”, he said. “Have some more rum!”, and he refilled my glass, and we laughed and chatted. As I staggered out of his house, my head swimming, I thought to myself: he certainly seemed happy.
