Our man in Cannes

It's 5.38pm on Day One of Cannes and already I'm running on empty.

We arrived in the pouring rain which soon turned to burning sunshine, by which time we were traipsing around the Festival circuit pressing PR flesh and getting ourselves accredited.

Then it turns out I'm a tuxedo down as I was told I wouldn't need one but guess what? So I scour the boutiques for a black suit costing less than a 4-bed flat in Willesden, before heading to the Palais. After an ambiguous word with one of the festival heavies I decided to buy a white shirt and bow tie and risk my dark blue pinstripe suit. We shall see come premiere o'clock but time's too short to worry.

We're off to the seaside harbour type riviera thing to film a piece to camera when Alison gets in, then we shall see whether or not I can actually feed back to ITN.

Of course I'm missing the obvious - that screw you guys, I'm in Cannes. The brief glimpses of the seafront with its sparkling blue waters, bright white yachts and mountainous horizon have whetted my appetite, and it feels good to be out here doing a job, getting paid to shoot and report and maybe watch the odd film.

Our man in Cannes. Has a nice ring to it.