Really wild child
Underneath the clock at Waterloo Station, the gateway to my Western world, weary women in pink leg warmers, trainers and bras over tee-shirts walk by, survivors from the London Moonwalk. I am on my way home from The City Where No-one Ever Speaks To Strangers and the camaraderie and sense of achievement emanating from these women is humbling. I have left my old friend out in the suburbs in a Brief Encounter-like moment on a station platform. Yesterday I did my pitch at the travel writing workshop. I was buoyed up by euphoria after being told by the trainer Dea Birkett that my notes in an exercise about using all the senses sounded like poetry. But when it came to pitching an idea to Dan Linstead, the editor of Wanderlust , my heart was knocking so hard against my chest I thought I might have to let it out and shake hands with everyone round the table. Rather bravely, I went straight in with my first paragraph about the wind turbines in Puglia, encircling me like a sinister army , an...