There are certain people you don’t say no to. Your parents, say. Or the Queen. The PM would be another example. As would your rabbi. If they call, you come running.

The demise of the book has long been predicted. Television was forecast to rip us forcefully away from the novel but somehow the written word survived — indeed adaptations of classics such as Pride and Prejudice actually boosted sales.

It was over breakfast that I made the decision that was to change my life. A wet April morning in Montpellier, the TV news was reporting the latest polls for the French presidential elections. Francois Hollande was widely tipped to win by the tightest of margins.

Just over four years ago, a squad of soldiers arrived at John Fshaye’s school in the rural town of Senafe, in southern Eritrea. They had come to forcibly remove students to serve in the country’s army. It was perfectly legal — Eritrea operates open-ended military draft that often means decades in uniform for those unlucky enough to be conscripted.

It is the voice that is so familiar. The hair, once red, is now white. The frame, once six foot four, is less imposing now. But the sonorous tones are unmistakable.

Ilene Prusher has come up with an interesting description of what it means to be a woman foreign correspondent, particularly in a war zone. They are, she offers, “a third gender”, not male, certainly not subservient female, and often regarded with exasperation and suspicion by male interviewees, particularly in the Arab world.