The weather is unrelentingly glorious, the views are amazing, but I cling to the freelancer’s habit of never quite admitting I’m on holiday
In the summer of 1995, I went on a family holiday to Portugal. On the first day I got a call from a UK magazine, asking if I would be interested in interviewing Meg Ryan, in three days’ time. I looked out to the pool, where my wife and my mother-in-law were pushing my infant son across the water in an inflatable ring.
“Sure,” I said. I broke the news, packed my things, flew to London and, the next day, to LA.
