The myth of the war correspondent - insouciant, untouchable, stylishly got up in the latest flak jacket chic - has been one of the most insistently glamorous of modern journalism. Occasionally, however, the myth explodes into bloody reality, as it did for Anna Blundy in November 1989 when she received a phone call to say that her father, the British journalist David Blundy, had been shot dead while reporting on the war in El Salvador. In impish prose she describes how it felt to grow up with a father who was forever absent and forever in danger, and makes her own voyage of discovery to San Salvador to inquire into the circumstances surrounding his death.
This is a likeable and oddly upbeat book.
