DRIVING to Dover the other day, my friend suddenly says, “I forgot my passport.” We are almost at the ferry to France. Instead of being turned back, we are allowed to travel to Calais on the strength of an Irish passport (mine) and an out of date scrap of paper that used to be a UK driving licence (hers). The ferry operator waves her through.

Having done my Leaving the year she was born , I hadn’t heard of the writer Louise O’Neill until I was mooching in a bookshop the other day. I randomly picked up Asking For It — largely because of Jeanette Winterson’s recommendation on the cover — and read it almost in one go.

DOING anything this coming week? At a loose end at all? You could always pop over to London to the enormous ExCel events centre, which is hosting an arms fair, writes Suzanne Harrington. 

THAT photo has got be the turning point. The dead toddler on the beach. Three-year-old Alyan Kurdi, lifeless in his little black shoes.

IT’S hard to leave a place where the word for rubbish bin is ‘poubelle’. I mean, come on. Poubelle. Could there be a prettier word for such a utilitarian object? A thing stuffed with fag butts, rotting sandwiches, ice cream sticks, sweet wrappers, old newspapers and far worse — and yet still sounds like something from fairyland. Like Tinkerbell’s French cousin.

So what happens when a teen’s access to wifi is denied? Suzanne Harrington finds out

WE ALL know that when it comes to cultural superiority, France has cornered the market. If any of us remain unconvinced, look no further than books which tell us French Women Don’t Get Fat and French Children Don’t Throw Food.

How do self-employed people manage the no income thing if they stop working for any reason, asks Suzanne Harrington

RIGHT NOW, as we speak, there is a little 11-year-old Afghan boy called Shafiq all alone in the migrant camp in Calais, writes Suzanne Harrington.

DINITROPHENOL, according to government scientists, is “an industrial drug” which can be “extremely dangerous to human health”, writes Suzanne Harrington.