I had to smile when I read the following passage from the interview:
Until this point, I had been utterly engrossed in Sophie, but looking around, I discovered Ms. Shillinglaw seated at a table just across from us, closely observing the proceedings. Furthermore, I noticed several of Miss Sheppard’s modelling friends in the immediate vicinity, along with designer Anna Scholz just a table away. A scene from the movie The Godfather came to mind, in which the young Michael Corleone goes for a stroll in the Sicilian countryside with a pretty girl from the local village, followed closely her family, her friends, and well-nigh the entire population of her town. Never before had I conducted an interview with so many de facto chaperones.
That is one of my favourite scenes in the film, because it's so unexpected. It's a moment of quiet humour in what is otherwise a rather dark film.
The following video shows a montage of scenes between Michael and his Sicilian girlfrield. Fast foward to 1:51 to see a touching moment between the two at a family dinner. The stroll-in-the-countryside scene follows at 1:57.
I also got a kick out of the after-hours story, which began with such promise,
To my amazement, I was going to be being taken out on the town with half of the plus-size models in London.
but ended so horribly:
The horrors of the underworld would have been mild compared to the nightmarish locale in which I found myself. Far from being the posh, quiet setting that I had hoped it would be, the Queensberry Club turned out to be nothing more than a modern dance club, complete with dingy lighting and an all-black décor. All too well did I remember such soul-destroying dens of iniquity from my undergrad days—dark dungeons in which the intolerable modern noise that is ludicrously termed “music” blares out from gargantuan speakers at deafening volumes, making it utterly impossible to talk, think, or exist without suffering acute physical pain.
Even in the midst of this agonizing assault on my senses, I couldn’t help but remark on the savage irony of the situation: being in the company of Sophie Sheppard and a host of other plus-size models might have seemed, on paper, to have been the very definition of heaven for someone such as myself, and yet I had found myself in the most unbearable environment imaginable, the very apogee of the modern world that I loathed so much. In this torture chamber, I was assaulted by precisely the kind of drumbeat-driven primitive racket that I found intolerable at any volume, let alone at a decibel level that could burst one’s eardrums. It was my own Room 101, and Miss Sheppard’s presence didn’t mollify its horrors one iota.