Well France was as beautiful as ever; the baguettes were fresh and the red wine and Ricard copious. I love the pace of life over there and have long harboured hopes of relocating permamently – I did a French degree and spent 18 months working first in the Alps and then in Lyon. As I get older, personal and professional life have conspired to make this less likely. From my experience of France I know it can be bureaucratic and frustrating. Unfortunately I ‘m one of those people who find it quite difficult to live in the here and now – and have the constant nagging feeling that the grass is probably greener somewhere else.

Back in Blighty I feel quite busy with work but am going through a phase where I don’t have much to show for it. My job is quite cyclical – some months I will write tonnes and have lots of pieces published all over the place. At the moment I’m at the other end of the process – coming up with ideas, trying to get commissions, arranging and doing interviews and then trying to find some time to transcribe my shorthand or dictaphone. Like any writer I have an ego – we like to see our work in print. When there isn’t much to speak of that ego takes a knock. Probably a good thing for all concerned, but still.

Aaaaanyway.
One writer who I greatly admire is Johann Hari from the Independent. He has a brilliant, tragic feature in the paper at the moment – the kind of piece I would like to be writing – called Inside the Slave Trade. It tells the story of Bangladesh’s stolen boys and girls – children spirited away to brothels – and the efforts to save them. The photos are also beautiful.

“But there is an ever greater fear: the traffickers. The only moment when Mohammed betrays emotion is when he remembers a little girl called Muni, who was his friend. One day in June last year, when she was nine-and-a-half, an old man approached and told her she could have a brilliant job if she came with him. She refused, remembering the rumours that spread among the children about what really happened if you went with these men. He snatched her anyway. The other kids tried to tell the police, but they were just chased away.
Her body was found, raped and strangled, three days later….

“I ask him what he would like to own when he’s older, thinking I will get a child’s reverie about having a big house and a car. “Own?” he says. “I’d like to own my mother.” And with that, he grins and closes his eyes.”