Not all men are tossers, though some are.

I know I said I wouldn't write about Child Protection and the work that I did - and I meant it.

But the recent conviction of Rolf Harris has raised so many issues I thought I'd float a few of them here.

He presented as hugely likeable - and I'm sure that all those who never saw his 'darker side' had great fun with him. He was musical and talented and could make people laugh. Some blokes are good at that. Nothing can ever excuse the way he used his talents to abuse young women and children.

Some blokes are good at other stuff. They build things or make things or write things or dig their gardens or milk cows. They play music and read books and fall asleep in front of the telly. They cook the tea and play with their kids and read the newspaper and play on their computers. They are generally good blokes.

When I was working there were times when it felt as if all men were total plonkers - or worse. If anyone I didn't know well came near my children I went into fight-mode. Don't you dare pick up her ball for her, nor commiserate with a scraped knee. That sort of thing.

Since I stopped working I've met men of many more shapes and sizes and learned that - yes, some are still plonkers or worse. The Rolf Harrises of this world still lurk around children's playgrounds and in the swimming pools. They still sidle up to children and offer sweets and smiles and make them laugh. Parents must still be vigilant.

But most men aren't like that. Most men work and love and laugh and would need holding back in chains if they thought anyone would harm a child. There are more decent blokes around than tossers, even though the newspapers might have us believe otherwise.

And so, while nothing can ever diminish the harm that Rolf Harris has done, let's not tar all friendly men with his brushes. No one is perfect, but most of us (men and women) are good enough.

Now - that really is my last word on Child Protection. For I really ought to be marketing my vultures.

More money - Cuban money this time.

This news may have passed you by:

In the past, Cuba has worked with a dual currency, one for tourists and another for local people, effectively ensuring that tourists pay higher prices.

This dual-pricing system is common in developing countries. There has been much discussion on travel forums about this - for what it's worth, I don't have a problem with it. If I can afford to fly there, it's reasonable to assume I can pay a little more for my museum entrance or my supper.

Yet Cuba is the only country to enshrine the practice in two currencies, and now it is to be fazed out: the details are on the BBC website here. It's very unclear when the process will begin, or how it will happen -  but I recall similar concerns prior to decimalisation and that worked out ok.

Yet I do foresee some confusion when I go there in January - for me and for the Cubans. For I've met complex currencies before.

Let me give you an example: in Cambodia they have three currencies, the Cambodian riel, the Thai baht and the US dollar. It is common to be paid in one and get change in another. In the process of this exchange it is also common for the rate to vary, thus ensuring the tourist is a cent or two worse off than he or she ought to be.

Does that matter? There are those who believe that it does: ripping people off is always wrong, and tourists should make a point of challenging this process to promote a fairer cross-cultural exchange. Then there are those who recognise that a cent or two means little to the tourists, but - added to the next cent and the next - can buy a meal for a family, and they shrug off any discrepancy.

And now I shall probably be faced with this dilemma in Cuba. Which side of the fence do you sit?

Let me introduce you to ...

My granddaughter. You know of the boys - but I rarely write about her. She lives closer; I see her regularly, so the world doesn't stop for her visits.

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't know of her wonderfulness.

She's three. And I think this episode will tell you all you need to know:

My daughter and I were driving (I forget where) and the little one wanted to get out to play. No said my daughter, explaining - with extreme patience and clarity - that it was raining, and we had other things we needed to do.

The child asked again, and again. And my daughter explained, explained - there was no question of her changing her mind, so this wasn't a child carrying on in the hope of getting Mum to let her out to play anyway. Rather, she wasn't actually listening - explanations, for her, are not the point. She wanted to get out, discover the rain for herself.

I flashed back to her mother, as a little girl. To my explanations, to the endless questions, to the not listening. To her overwhelming need to explore the world for herself, to make her own mistakes. She needed the rain on her face, not on the windows.

Like daughter, like granddaughter.

She stands up to face the world with the clear expectation it will welcome her. Luck girl: she has a family to cheer her on, and pick her up if the world lets her down.

On talking to myself.

On Monday I blogged about sock puppetry - which is effectively talking to oneself online in order to appear popular, or to whip up some sort of storm to rubbish other people. If you missed it, you can find the post here (or scroll down). And there were lovely comments from people agreeing with me.

But it's got me thinking - for (is this a shameful admission?) I talk to myself at home. In the privacy of my own kitchen, I have lengthy conversations. They can be about anything, from what I'm about to do next (along the lines of 'what did I come in here for?') to rants about something on the news (if only politicians could hear me, there'd be no war, no poverty, no discrimination - come to think of it, no politicians ...). I talk to my plants (why aren't you flowering, like every other plant in the universe - I give you water, what more do you want?). I talk to my cooking (oh heck, burnt again; what have I done wrong this time?).

I argue with myself. What do I think about this, about that? The great thing about discussions like this that I am always right. I'll present opposite opinions knowing I can demolish them. I can be rewarding, when you get the hang of it.

Talking to oneself, they used to say, is the first sign of madness. In which case I'm totally bonkers.

I live alone. I have friends and family - so it's not as if there's never anyone else to talk to. But I do spend hours alone and am happy with that. But if there were no voices in that silence - well, that would feel too quiet. I speak, therefore I am alive, and I matter, and I have a voice, even if I'm the only person who can hear it.

Is Laos so different from Cambodia?

I thought you went to Laos, I hear you say. (Well, I don't, but you know what I mean.) My recent book, Bombs and Butterflies, is all about my trip to Laos last winter. So why the chatter about Cambodia?

Well, the cobra came up, so to speak, so I wrote about that. And I couldn't do that without pointing out that there was so much more to Cambodia than snakes and temples. But you're right - so here are some thoughts about Laos.

Laos and Cambodia are neighbours. They both wrestle the dialogue between ancient ways of thinking and the urgency of western ideas. They have both experienced trauma in living memory - trauma that runs far deeper than most of us could possibly imagine.

And yet, in spite of all that, Laos is hugely different. To begin with, Cambodia has had to come terms with Khmer murdering Khmer. They slaughtered their own people in their millions. Some of those who survived are traumatised - but they have had many children. And it is the children, young people now, who work their socks off to rebuild the country. Killing fields, they say - pah! Look to the future. I was in Phnom Penh for Independence Day and every young person in the city was in the central park, speakers blaring, dancing, singing, Rocking all over the World. It felt like a joyful two fingers to the past - they have a country to rebuild and no one is going to stop them.

In contrast, the devastation in Laos came from the air - from American bombing. Raids were sent into to Laos every eight minutes for nine years. (Can you begin to imagine that?). They responded by closing their borders, for forty years. Why wouldn't they? Who was there left to trust? Slowly, with the support of China, they are beginning to allow the rest of the world to peer through their doorways.

As a visitor (I hope I was a visitor, and not simply a tourist), it takes time to meet people, to find a language we both understand, to begin to engage with their experiences - which makes sense in view of such recent devastation. I found them to be kind and generous, and quietly welcoming. A young woman at a Homestay, who carried my luggage and helped me up and down the steps (I'm ancient by Laotian standards) even offered to wash my feet. It was humbling, when she knew nothing about me other than the colour of my skin, that she should go to such lengths to show hospitality.

And the countryside is astonishingly beautiful: mountains, rich with heavy green, impenetrable to the likes of me but no doubt a metropolis of wild life. There are villages reachable only by river - what better way to travel. And so many quiet corners to contemplate this lovely country and its brave people.

As some of you know, my camera was stolen just before I left, and so I have no pictures. But Laura Zera has also been to Laos, and came back with some wonderful photos that are on her blog - over two whole posts!! Here and here. She has given me permission to use her pictures on this blog - but that feels unfair, given that she took them and has been so generous. So do go and have a look. (And you can find Laura on twitter - @laurazera - she's some fascinating mental health stuff as well as the travelling. What a woman!)