One of the biggest perks about living in London is that, supposedly, I can go to Paris at the drop of a hat. If you live in New York and sit on a train for a couple of hours, the best you can do is Philadelphia. I don’t mean to cast aspersions on the City of Brotherly Love but, really, Paris it ain’t. But of course, here I sit in London and although I have been doing quite a bit of travelling lately, I haven’t been to Paris in two years. Two years! That’s a sin, in my book. But now I’m going. Friday morning I board the Eurostar for a lovely, Spring weekend in Paris, just me and the little husband. The dinner reservations have been made. I can taste the Pernod already.

The timing couldn’t be better because next week looks to be a doozie. On Monday, I’m in Brighton at a meeting of a the New Writing South Creative Team to which I have recently been accepted. New Writing South is a charity which sends writers into schools and businesses to run workshops on everything from poetry to playwriting. Being a part of it will give me more chances to teach, which I love, and to meet other British writers outside of London. And then the rest of the week is devoted to the London Book Fair. Last year I didn’t go. I was much too intimidated and nervous. This year, I am just as intimidated and just as nervous, but I’m going anyway. What a difference a year makes, eh? I’ll report back on how that goes.

But first, Paris. And just to get us all in the mood……