Climate change

Real tears are dripping onto my laptop typing this, as Emma Thompson has just found out that it's all been a big misunderstanding and Hugh Grant isn't married after all. This is extremely worrying and not just because of my history of electrical equipment and water.

One good thing about my sort-of-boyfriend's government killing hundreds of innocent Lebanese, is that I didn't have to blow out my dad and stepmum's 20th wedding party yesterday by being in Jordan. Not that I would've felt TOO guilty, as my dad scarred me for life by missing most of my childhood birthdays cos he was away filming important documentaries in difficult countries. Revenge is best served 25 years cold.

Seems hard to imagine right at this minute, writing on a jumbo over the Atlantic, but I genuinely intend never to fly again once I've finished Crude. (At least: to only fly within non-damaging carbon emissions, so about one big flight every five years or so). So this is highly likely the last time I'll see my brother's family in Boston. Well, not the family - they'll be visiting England - but their house and their life. (Having said that, we plan to come back for more Al filming later in the summer, so may get one more chance.)

This has rapidly turned into the Spanner Films sell out tour. When we're not driving to the local health food store (too hot to walk, oh the irony, turn up the AC), we're drinking Starbucks (the only place open in the devastated areas) iced coffee out of plastic glasses (with two-thirds of the population gone, it's easier for restaurants to pay for disposables than to find someone to wash dishes. Oh the irony pt 2).

Official Day Off today. After a panicky start in the morning - what to do? - hooked up with old pal/new celebrity Eric Schlosser, author of Fast Food Nation, who's in town to launch his new kids' junk-food book. Helen and Dave McLibel came along too.

"Ear protectors" for sale at Santa Pod racestrip - and the anti-wind campaingers say the windfarm proposed next door will be too noisy

Second of two consecutive nights in two consecutive weeks in French train bunk beds. As Fernand dropped us at the station last weekend, he casually mentioned he was going on a big anti-truck cycle protest this weekend. 300 hardy Chamonix-ers cycling, Critical Mass style, along the huge motorway that cuts through the valley. Couldn't resist coming back to film it, as it's so perfect for the some-hope-remains theme.

Just back from Morrissey gig with old pal Mark Lynas : author of climate change classic, "High Tide", daily pub companion when we were both stranded for six months in Oxfordshire outpost, occasional McLibel microphone holder, Alaskan snowmobile driver, Tuvaluan shoulder-to-cry-on - and only other person who would say "What time does worship start?" when enquiring when a Morrissey concert begins.

The predicted thunderstorms duly arrived and wiped out our helicopter plans. But managed to get some good shots of skiers trying to ski across a wee lake thing - till a snowboarder crashed right next to me and sent half a lake of icy water right over camera and me.

"Who is he?" said my stepmum as I bowled into their kitchen like a puppy let off the leash, but before I'd said a word. Ha ha ha, she knows me very well.