It was a while ago now, and yet I remember it as though it were yesterday.
Josephine Hyde had been a reluctant interviewee. 'What makes you think that your readers will be interested in me?' she had said when I telephoned her. 'I can understand them being interested in my paintings. But I can't see why they would be interested in me.'
'People like to know about the person behind the works,' I told her. 'I think it probably helps them to understand the works themselves.'
Josephine Hyde was not convinced.
'Have you never wanted to know more about the person behind the artwork?' I asked.
'Not really. If the painting's any good, it should speak for itself.'
'So you don't subscribe to the idea that only Picasso could paint a Picasso?'
For a moment or two she said nothing. And then she said: 'I'm not Picasso. I'm Josephine Hyde. Hyde with a Y.'
'I think the principle is the same,' I suggested.
But she didn't think that it was the same. 'Picasso was Picasso. He was a one-off.'
'And you are not?' I said.
For perhaps five minutes we batted the question back and forth, and then, eventually, she said: 'Oh well, we could try, I suppose. If I say no, you're only going to call me again in another month or so -- hoping that I won't say no a second time.'
I suggested that I would go to her studio on the following Tuesday afternoon.
'Tuesday? Hmm... I suppose that might work,' she said. 'But don't come too early. I'm getting old. I need a short afternoon nap these days.'
'Three o'clock?' I suggested.
'Three o'clock should be all right. But don't be late,' she told me. 'I hate it when people say they will come at three and then they don't show up until four-thirty.'
'I shall be ringing your doorbell at precisely three o'clock,' I assured her.
'Well, that won't be much use. I shan't hear it. The battery has been dead for a week or more now. I am sure the fellow who sold it to me said that it was supposed to recharge itself automatically. But it seems to have died. I'm afraid you will need to knock. Loudly.'
'Send me an email,' I said. 'With the battery specification. I'll bring you a new one. And, yes, I shall also knock loudly.'
Josephine Hyde didn't send me an email. But I looked up 'battery-powered doorbells' on the internet. Most of the doorbells listed seemed to use one or two of three different batteries. I purchased a small selection and slipped them into my laptop satchel.
Josephine Hyde's studio was down an alleyway in a part of the city that was beginning to enjoy a bit of a revival. It was tucked in between a motor mechanic's workshop (where they appeared to specialise in servicing classic European cars -- older Porsches, Mercedes, BMWs, Ferraris, Alfa Romeos, etcetera), and a catering equipment wholesaler. I arrived a couple of minutes before three, and waited until precisely three o'clock before rapping, loudly, on the bright yellow door.
'Hello. Tom Heisman,' I said, when she answered the door.
Josephine, who was wearing loose-fitting many-pocketed blue denim dungarees over a long-sleeved white T-shirt, looked me up and down and then glanced at the large-faced watch on her wrist. 'Well, so far so good,' she said. 'You had better come in.'
'I brought a few batteries with me,' I told her. 'Perhaps we could begin by taking a look at your silent doorbell.'
She almost smiled. 'Well, part of it is right there,' she said, pointing to the small white button. 'And the other part is just over there. Above the blue cabinet. I assume that you will be wanting tea. I shall go and put the kettle on.'
I recognised the bell set-up from one of those I had seen on the internet. There were two batteries: a lithium button battery and a 9-volt alkaline battery. I started by replacing the button battery. That made no difference whatsoever. So I replaced the 9-volt battery in the wall unit. Bingo! 'I don't think the unit is self-charging,' I said. 'You may have been misled. It looks as if you need to replace that battery from time to time.'
'Well, I certainly haven't replaced any batteries in the past four years,' she assured me. 'I'm sure I would have remembered.'
I nodded. 'Well... perhaps replace... but not very often.'
While Josephine made the tea, I studied one of the works-in-progress that was on the large studio easel. Her work was quite deceptive. From a distance, her paintings seemed to be quite loose, relaxed, almost slap dash. But, on closer inspection, it was evident that they were very carefully crafted. Each brushstroke was quite deliberate.
'The tea is Earl Grey,' she said, as she placed the tray on a small table between two chairs. 'You may have milk in it if you want to. I have some in the fridge. But I wouldn't recommend it. Not with Earl Grey.'
'No, no. Just... as it comes, thank you,' I said.
Josephine poured the tea. 'Are you going to come and sit down?' she asked. 'Or are you going to pace about like a tiger in a zoo?'
'Let me just grab a notepad,' almanbahis I said.
'As a matter of interest, do you like zoos?' she asked.
'Yes. I think I do,' I confessed. 'Although I sometimes find myself feeling a little sorry for the animals. Of course, some zoos are better than others. And many zoo animals have never known anywhere other than a zoo.'
'A bit like humans,' Josephine said. 'For hundreds of years, my own ancestors lived in and around Oxford. And then, in the course of a generation or so, they were scattered to the four corners of the globe.'
'You yourself were born in India,' I said.
'Was I?'
'That's what your entry in Artist's World says. Is that not correct?'

'Probably,' she said. 'If that's what it says. I don't really remember. I was very young at the time I was born. Although I do remember going back out to India when I was four. We embarked at Tilbury and sailed to Bombay aboard the P