Colonel Gaddafi’s Hat. Alex Crawford

teeth yet? I will know if you haven’t!’ and ‘Remember to do all your homework, even the reading for twenty minutes a night bit.’ I’m not sure it helps fill the yawning gap of an absent mother, but they tell me they enjoy trying to find the notes under their pillows, hidden in their school books, tucked away in their underwear drawers.

      My eldest, Nat, who is 15, gives the outward appearance of being the most stoic about it all. He’ll just anxiously ask how long I’ll be away and where I am going. He’s not happy in Dubai, where we’re living now. He doesn’t much like the new school. He doesn’t much like the students. He misses India (where we were previously posted) and all his friends there. He’s still sore at us for taking him away from his old life and he’s constantly asking to go back. Oh dear Nat, no, my love, there’s no going back. My heart is hurting for him. I loved India too and I desperately want him to be happy. But the job is here now. In Dubai, in the Gulf. And the Middle East and North Africa are bubbling with discontent. And not just Nat’s either.

      The dynamics of the family change when one of us is absent. I notice, when one of them has a sleepover elsewhere, the noise levels dip, there are different family allegiances, different sparring matches. When Mum disappears for weeks it must alter considerably. Frankie is the second eldest (just 13) but far more mature than all of us put together. She used to be terribly upset when I disappeared for work before, now she becomes very angry. And she doesn’t seem to get used to it either. She just gets angrier.

      ‘Mum, you really have to sort out your priorities,’ she tells me. ‘Why do you have to go? Can’t someone else do it? Why you? Just tell your news desk you have children, Mum. Don’t they realize that? You know what, Mum, when I grow up I am going to do a job where I actually see my children.’ Wow, the volleys are coming in thick and fast. Frankie gives me the hardest time out of all the children but also bombards me with affectionate text messages while I am away. But she has one final warning: ‘And you better not miss my birthday, Mum.’ It’s coming up in less than three weeks. Yet another deadline to meet. Oh, my gosh, I’d forgotten all about that. That’s going to be tight.

      Maddy, at 11 years old, is the least outwardly perturbed of the three girls and probably the most interested in news events and what’s going on in the world. She records her own little news diaries on her mobile phone and always signs them off: ‘This is Maddy Edmondson for Sky News.’ She has an audience of one – Maddy Edmondson – and occasionally Maddy Edmondson’s mother. She has her own Twitter account too – long before her mother was encouraged by her office to get one. I think she had three followers – her two sisters and her mum. She’s more a Facebook girl. But Facebook doesn’t replace a mum who is away working. She doesn’t like me going away either. They all – Nat apart – cry when I leave, and as soon as the door shuts they start counting down the days until I am back.

      And then there’s Richard – a hugely successful and decorated racing and sports journalist who is now largely responsible for keeping the Crawford–Edmondson household afloat. Sometimes even close friends ponder: ‘And what’s old Rick doing these days?’ What? You mean apart from looking after the four children, doing the homework, the cooking, the ironing and the school drop-offs? Well, yes, in between he’s also trying to do some freelance writing and keep a foothold in the business he loves while his wife is off racing round the world. Yeah, not up to much really.

      Richard gave up his job on the Independent newspaper after more than twenty years so I could become a foreign correspondent, which involved us all moving to India so I could take up the post of Asia correspondent at the end of 2005. It was a lot harder than either of us imagined. For a start, I’m sure you know, the world is still very sexist, one which remains largely divided on gender lines. And it’s emphasized particularly when you are an expat living abroad. Richard will quite often be the only man doing the daily drop-offs at the international school gates, the only man at the parent ‘get-to-know-you’ lunches, the only man solely organizing his children’s birthday parties, the only man at the school coffee mornings. It is hard for him and I have no doubt it is also very lonely.

      There’s also a crushing loss of status which many women will be all too familiar with after having children and stepping off the career ladder. I wouldn’t say Richard is used to it by now. Does anyone ever get used to it? My former Foreign Editor, Adrian Wells, used to say he should be canonized. ‘How does he put up with you? How does he put up with it? How on earth does he do it?’ are the common questions. And if Richard is viewed as a saint by some, I often feel the opposite about my own status.

      Most of the time I feel I am failing – failing as a mother, failing as a wife, failing as a foreign correspondent – because I can’t give any of my roles the time I want to. A foreign correspondent’s job requires 150 per cent commitment. I have waited so long to be a foreign correspondent based abroad and came to it that much later in life. I feel I have a lot of catching up to do. It’s a 24/7 job and to do it well you have to put in so much time and effort. The necessary skills of being a mother of four often seem to involve having the organizational and diplomatic qualities of a CEO cum banker cum chef cum sergeant major. I constantly feel torn between all of my roles and feel like I am not succeeding at any of them.

      Now I’m the main breadwinner and, for all the pain caused by constantly leaving the family, the work has to be worth it. I can’t afford to do a bad job. It has to be good. Well, more than good. Otherwise why put everyone through all of this? I love the job, the places it takes me to, the people I get to meet, the stories just waiting to be uncovered. To be honest, I love the thrill and the adventure – so much so, it often feels terribly selfish. I don’t enjoy being shot at. It’s not the danger I love. Often I am terrified. Rather it’s the opportunity of going to corners of the world I wouldn’t get to if it wasn’t for my job. It’s the chance to make a difference somewhere to someone. Along with many foreign correspondents I realize how damn lucky I am to be doing this job and frankly I don’t want to screw it up. I want them – my family – to be proud of me. I want them to feel like it’s worth it. For all our sakes, I must try to do my best in Libya.

      This particular departure coincides with a visit by the in-laws – or it is about to. This will ease the pain for all considerably, particularly Richard. His parents, June and Bill, have arrived in the region for a holiday. They are going on a mini cruise which was booked months ago and – unbeknown to them at the time of booking – seems to take in all the Middle East revolution hotspots – Bahrain, Oman, the Gulf of Aden. Half the itinerary has been adjusted, with many of the hotspots crossed off owing to ‘uprisings’. So now it’s just the pirates they have to watch out for. After the cruise, they will stay at our home in Dubai for the rest of their break. Good. The children will be distracted by loving grandparents. Richard will be distracted by being run off his feet as the host.

      Right now, though, I have got to pack. The goodbyes are always horrendous and, to be honest, I want them over as soon as possible. They’re just too hurtful for everyone.

      Wednesday, 2 March

      Martin and I fly from Dubai to Tunis and meet Tim Miller, Sky’s Deputy Foreign Editor. He is a hugely popular figure in the newsroom – easy-going, sensible, always pleasant to deal with. ‘Bonjour, mes amis,’ he says with a broad smile. ‘Allez, Libya!’ We’re pleased to see him. We’re all pleased to be on the trail of the story. For now, all we can see is the future.

      The plan is that the three of us will enter the country legitimately but try to shake off Gaddafi’s ‘minders’ as soon as possible. Their remit is to ensure the ‘right’ Gaddafi version of events is broadcast. Our remit is to try to report on what is really going on inside Libya.

      At least that’s the plan. The three of us relocate to a small café in the airport where we have the first of many croque-monsieurs waiting for the Tunis Air check-in desk to open. But when it does, the answer is a firm ‘Non!’

      We are still waiting for the official letters from Tripoli cordially inviting our attendance and, as far as the airline is concerned, they do not exist. We beg, we plead, we rant with the elderly Tunis Air official, who is Libyan. We get letters faxed and emailed from Sky and show him our journalist press passes. Non, non and non again.