If you were to ask me what Miley Cyrus is really like I wouldn't know where to start.
Don't get me wrong. That's not some carefully considered analysis of an extraordinarily complex character. I'm not saying she's unusually complicated or impenetrable or anything like that. You're not asking me to psychoanalyse Steve Jobs.
The truth with Miley is, I just don't know.
I had 15 minutes to interview her. Ohhh. 18, maybe. You'd spend more time chatting to a cabby on a dash to the airport than I did yarning with the world's biggest pop star.
And yet actually, by superstar standards, 18 minutes is an age. Usually you get four. Four measly minutes with whatever chiseled-and-cheek-boned Hollywood hunk or honey is plugging their new film or record.
They don't want to be there. They don't want to do seventy consecutive interviews, shaking seventy sweaty hands, struggling throughout to transition from questions in thick Eastern European accents. If it weren't for contractual fineries, the faux-smiles and semi-coherent answers would be switched out in a sec.
Just imagine for a moment what on Earth it'd be like to be asked to describe the annals of your job seventy consecutive times. By twenty you'd be bored. By thirty you'd be irritable. By sixty you'd have an eye twitch and by the last couple you'd go zongo.
The mere fact Tom Hanks hasn't ended one of his publicity days with a maniacal scream, smearing himself in his own excretions and running in circles and being tasered by security, is the reason he wins Oscars and you and I don't.
We had somewhere between 15 and 18 minutes all up in the locker room of the Chicago Bulls basketball team.
She didn't have to do seventy interviews. But she did have to do a show: the umpteenth of her US 'Bangerz' tour. She'd be on stage in just over an hour.
Miley was friendly, polite, and funny. Her language was more befitting a lad on the nightshift at a Southland meatworks than a Disney princess: Most Americans don't swear like Kiwis. But I've heard a whole lot worse.
I was struck she didn't have a posse. Usually with these things, a team of panicking aids and assistants follow the star's every step.
I did an interview once with a name-who-shall-remain-nameless, whose assistant brought him three separate coffees, least one or two happened to be the wrong temperature. It was like Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
But not for this one. Nope. It was just Miley and her manager. She did her own make up. She asked to see what her shot looked like before we hit record. She initiated the small talk and claimed that any decisions about tongue stuff and twerking is all her doing, too.
After 15 or 18 minutes I sensed time was up and turned to her manager.
"Am I allowed to ask for a photo?" I said.
"I'm the one you ask." Said Miley.
I snapped back.
"Let's get a selfie." She smiled.