On the train to Gatwick – Reading a book on one man’s journey through Africa – I pause to look out the window. Viewing the pastoral stillness of lush fields after a rain – that crisp, sweet feeling as the sun emerges. Then, as if some mutation, housing developments, red-brick boxes sprouting from fertile ground. These cloned anomalies bearing witness to our ability to take something perfect, mutate and replicate.

Sitting in the terminal, waiting for a flight to Toulouse, I feel nervous – inadequate, really – knowing 5 phrases in French. It’s not that I’m worried people won’t speak English, I know many will, it’s just the principle of being in France and speaking English.