When the roof of your bedroom caves in.

I'm sat in one of the poshest hotels in Yangon and I'm realising with a bit of a sigh what a terrible blogger I've been the last six months.

The last time I sat and wrote to the world I was immersed in reporting on slavery on Thai fishing boats in Cambodia and Thailand and falling back in love with Myanmar.

Now here I am again. Back in Yangon. The Thai fishing boat story published and expanding into other avenues and I am still drinking too much coffee and falling head over heals with Myanmar.

In fact, that's been the singular constant of the last few months - an overwhelming sensation that I am in the right place at the right time and that I could not imagine being anywhere else in the world.

Myanmar has come onto the world stage. The lethargy and control of 2008/2009 are fading. It's 8 in the morning and this hotel lobby is heaving with business men and UN folks. The room prices here have gone up five times since last year. There is a buzz in the air. The ground is so fertile with change - that you only have to breath an idea and it begins to pick up leaves and shoots and grow. I'm sure I'll write properly about these changes soon - try to clumsily sum up this sensation of living through historical transition.

But for now, I want to describe the floods of monsoon outside the front door and the potholes that continue to make walking to work dangerous. I want to tell you that the damp that moulds clothes and suitcases and shoes last night crept into our crumbling colonial apartment and brought the roof of our bedroom down. I want to tell you that the teashops are still tiny, plastic chairs in red and green, with tarpaulin sheets strung between trees overhead. I want to say that McDonalds has still not moved in (despite the lifting of sanctions). I want to tell you that people still smile at you in the street and that Burmese letters are still as rounded and beautiful (and only slightly less indecipherable). I want to tell you that the fresh breakfast fish soup "mohinyga" is still as tasty and the tea still as sickly-condensed-milk-sweet. I want to tell you that I have never loved my work colleagues more and that in many ways, I have never been happier. I want to tell you that some part of beckilina feels her roots growing down, deep into the earth here. I want to tell you that I still love adventures and travel, but that for the first time in my life I can picture myself here for years as opposed to just months.