Personal encounter:Pavarotti was desirable in a larger- than-life way, despite being, well, larger than life, but he was basically a clown, remembers Kate Holmquist
There's a story my husband loves to tell about the day he couldn't get me at my extension, so he rang the news editor only to be bluntly told: "She's having her hair done for Luciano."
In 1990 I was a cub reporter assigned to the "colour" piece of the day - a packed press conference at the Westbury Hotel, where the bear-like Luciano Pavarotti was holding court before his concert at the RDS Simmonscourt that night. He was at his peak then, bearing no resemblance to the pathetic icon that had to be wheeled like a singing statue on to the stage at the Point a few years later.
This was long before his health problems began to defeat him, when he possessed a full charisma offensive - part superstar and part charming Italian waiter. He admitted that stagehands had to build steel-reinforced loveseats for him to sit on while crooning lovesongs to his sopranos, but the way he poked fun at himself made him all the more attractive.
He was physically and artistically alive in a way that could fill a stage, yet he retained an endearing awkwardness. He was the small-town Italian goalie who'd never expected fame and yet had become a celebrity overnight. So he was milking it for all it was worth - just as he strung out those top notes in Nessun Dorma.
Ignoring the rest of the press pack, Pavarotti focused his operatic high beams on me and decided he wasn't going to speak to any other reporter. He laid one of his soft bear paw hands upon my face and invited me up to his room for a private performance. "I sing for you alone," he offered.
This overture, unfortunately, was stripped of all romance (not to mention dignity) because it was witnessed by the full Dublin press corps. While Pavarotti seemed to be enjoying his new role as sex symbol, he also liked to poke fun at himself. With utmost seriousness, he said that, when appearing in Cork in 1965, he built himself something of a reputation as "the black Italian falcon jumping on the white Irish doves". My astonished expression prompted him to add: "was a joke".
Pavarotti was desirable in a larger-than-life way - despite being, well, larger than life - but he was basically a clown. He was never more self-assured than when playing himself, the naive bumpkin who dares to love the pretty girl.
One of his greatest roles was as Nemorino in L'Elisir d'Amore, in which the clown is convinced that a love potion will enable him to seduce the delicate soprano.
I was no diva, but I was more than happy to play the straight man in a rather complex operatic in-joke if it led to an exclusive interview. I hasten to add that the most he revealed to me was that he loved Dublin because it was full of beautiful women and also happened to be where Joan Inkpen discovered him before spiriting him away to Covent Garden.
I almost wish I could report that I ended dripping in fettucini while the world's greatest tenor crooned Puccini, but all I got was a front-page story and a free ticket to the gig.
The acoustics were terrible but the concert was worthwhile, not so much for opera lovers, but for those who wanted to be able to say they'd seen Pavarotti perform live.
It was hardly worth having one's hair done for, though I'll never forget those few moments when a great tenor gave me the diva treatment.