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In the book's prologue you get an idea how eventful that kind of life was - there's a chilling account of the moment when she approached what she thought was her favourite female elephant Eleanor. The massive creature responded to her call and allowed her to put her hand to its ear. Things went pearshaped pretty quickly though; the elephant (patently NOT Eleanor!) picked Daphne up and smashed her down onto some boulders with no warning. As she lay broken and stunned, Daphne prepared for the worst. The animal began to move in on her but then a remarkable thing happened. It stopped. Then, ever so gently, it inserted its long tusks under her body and tried to usher Daphne back onto her feet. Odd behaviour coming straight after an attack but Daphne has an explanation. She's convinced that Eleanor was a friend of this attacking elephant and managed to transmit that bond with Daphne by some means. I know it sounds kooky but I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt for a couple of reasons. First, (duh! No brainer) she's a world renowned conservationist with decades of experience. Secondly, I had a holiday romance in Sri Lanka with an elephant called Khumali. She was beautiful and about thirty years old. After taking a cheesy tourist ride on her back through the jungle, I got down and was preparing to say goodbye and thank you when the Mahout noticed I was quite taken by her. He asked if I wanted to help him bathe her in the lake nearby. We went to the water and although I was a bit cagey at first, the moment I saw Khumali lie on her side and allow herself to be washed and scrubbed, I plunged right in. After about an hour I had to return to our hotel but I was quite emotional. There is something incredibly intimate about getting up close and personal with an elephant. Their eyes are so small yet kind and you know when they've made a connection with you. It's like an arrow through the heart! On the same trip, on the way back to catch the plane at Columbo, I popped in to visit an elephant orphanage. That sealed it.. I was totally convinced that I was Daphne Sheldrick in another life! Read her book and weep - she's an inspirational figure, a real heroine of our times... oh and the pictures are awesome too.

Tuesday's Culture Café proved to be a feisty affair... with three women (ok, four including me) talking about feminism. The peg for this was the looming . Joyce McMillan theatre critic at the Scotsman joined Muriel Romanes, theatre director of Stellar Quines and brilliant broadcast journalist Jane Franchi for a chat about women's representation in the media. It was soon clear that we all felt that things had definitely moved on over the past three or four decades, but not nearly enough. What on earth is going on when you routinely see men of a certain age, and of a certain physical build, etc. presenting tv shows and reporting from around the world when their female counterparts were (in the main) stick thin, very young and glamorous. There are notable exceptions but regrettably, few women make it on to the small screen without looking great. Sure, it helps to be looking at an attractive face on the telly and that doesn't preclude having a brilliant journalistic brain. But try this bit of reverse psychology on for size. Bruce Forsyth is amazing. He is very old. He presents a prime time TV dancing show on the Ö÷²¥´óÐã. His glamorous and elegant co presenter is Tess Daly. Invert that for a mo. Bruce is a thirty something looker who is somewhat in the shadow of Tess, a seventy plus "national treasure" who is more than capable of doing the soft shoe shuffle. Would that strike you as odd? I rest my case m'lord! Thank God I have a face for Radio.