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It is Sunday, May the second, and it is my birthday. Everything is very calm at the moment; James and the children are still sleeping, and the dog and I have walked round the garden. I have noticed the blossom on the apple and plum trees, the new spears in

I’m not as unhappy as I should be at the cancellation of the vigil for Sarah Everard. I’m exhausted with the same arguments going round and round and round. How many times have women Reclaimed the Night? How many stories have we shared around #MeToo? How many times, in how

Decompression Day I flew in from Uganda late on Saturday morning. It was a long journey (eighteen hours of boda, light plane, car, car, big plane, transfer, big plane, car) with a sleepless night before it, accompanied by a ceaseless circulation of thoughts. Life in Uganda was a minute by

We landed in Entebbe at eight o’clock this morning, having left Heathrow at five o’clock yesterday afternoon. We had hair raising transfers at Paris and Nairobi – first we had to get from one end of Charles de Gaulle airport to the other in twenty minutes, including a shuttle transfer.

In a few short hours, I will be flying off to Uganda. No one is more surprised about this than I am. I don’t just go to Uganda, or anywhere else (except maybe the supermarket when we’ve run out of milk). And yet here I am. ‘I can’t help with