FRANCE is the most visited country on earth — 80-something million of us go there each year. So there’s no point going on about it, because you’ll already know all about the French joie de vivre, savoir vivre, savoir faire, sang froid, maybe even the hauteur or froideur if you commit a faux pas like turning up topless to the village post office to buy stamps, having walked a mile along a Cote d’Azur beach in 35 degree heat.

My sister tells me the French for ‘vegan’ is ‘fou’, but I don’t believe her.

SOMEONE shared a video on Facebook. It was in the aftermath of Pride in Brighton, one of the town’s biggest weekends of the year, which happens every August.

I BELIEVE it’s called meshing, although as a non-geek (that is, an advanced technophobe) I couldn’t be sure. It’s the process of an individual — your kid, for instance — sitting on a sofa with the telly on, volume up, but he’s not watching it because he has an iPad in one hand and a PSP console thing in the other.

IT’S just days away from our beach holiday — the one where I will drive 800 miles to a campsite in the south of France with two kids in the back chorusing “are we there yet” — but all I keep hearing about is how I should be worried about my “bikini body”.

EVERY baby is born the same — squalling, bloody, scrunched up, a few fragile pounds of infinite need and life-changing feelings for the boggle-eyed new parents.

YOU always hear about gardens being places of sanctuary.

IN DUBLIN to promote my book, the taxi drops me at a Georgian house-hotel next to the Dáil.

THERE are so many things about modern living that could induce constant rage if you let them.

I AM at a photo shoot in London for a big media feature on my book, which is out this week.