So much content I want to upload -- but the comms here in Beirut have been virtually non-existent for the past 24 hours.

We think the anti-missile systems on the warships down at the Port could be scrambling the microwave links we use to access the internet. As a result I haven't been able to open a single e-mail since yesterday.

Once the situation improves I'll upload some more photos and maybe even get the first podcast done.

As far as work's concerned, as my colleague Bridget Kendall explains every BBC correspondent loves writing for the "From Our Own Correspondent" programme -- or FOOC as it's known inside the corporation.

"You can say things you cannot say anywhere else. You are freer to be yourself," says Bridget.

She's right -- and on this Saturday's programme I'll be attempting to say things I can't say anywhere else. Here's what I'll be saying:

Just over a week ago I arrived at Beirut International Airport in the early hours of the morning – and went straight to bed.

By the time I awoke, the runway I had touched down on just a few hours earlier had been reduced to rubble. Within days, large parts of Lebanon went the same way, within weeks the political and geographical landscapes seemed to have shifted indelibly.

Jim Muir reported from Lebanon throughout the country’s civil war of the 1970s and 80s – and had recently returned to Beirut to live. He was getting ready to move into a new apartment when the crisis erupted – and he asked me in his usual unflappable manner whether I was likely to need an extra pair of hands in the days ahead.

It’s perhaps an understatement to say that Jim and I have something of a history together.

We worked as a team during the Iraq war of 2003, roaming across the northern Kurdish areas while we prepared for a possible dash to Baghdad after Saddam Hussein’s regime had been toppled.

But our work together came to an abrupt end when I stepped on a hidden anti-personnel landmine while we were filming an abandoned Iraqi trench dug into a grassy hill. I lost my leg below the knee in the accident. Our cameraman, the Iranian photojournalist Kaveh Golestan, lost his life.

Back in Britain doctors decided by leg was too badly damaged to be saved. Over the months that followed I came to terms with the loss of my limb – and the reality of life with an artificial limb.

My apprehension of working in a war zone diminished when Jim sauntered into the Beirut office grinning broadly. I phoned my wife Aileen – who’s five months pregnant – and told her that Jim and I were working together again.

“Just don’t go wandering into any minefields with him again,” – she scolded – “and make sure you’re back before the birth.”

Over the last week I’ve watched the hopes of a generation of Lebanese people collapse. It’s supposed to be the height of the tourist season here. Hotel owners were looking forward to their best year yet.

When I was growing up Lebanon’s civil war was a familiar scene on the nightly television news bulletins. People would often describe a place that looked especially decrepit as being “like Beirut.”

In recent years, Lebanon has tried hard to put that image of conflict and kidnappings behind it. Glossy brochures promoting the chic boutiques and attractions of Roman-built Baalbeck or 18th century Beieddine are still scattered on the coffee tables of Beirut’s smart new international hotels.

I doubt they’ll be seeing many visitors now.

The chic boutiques are locked and shuttered – and the hotel lobbies are populated only by a few exhausted Lebanese, smoking and watching with disbelief as the latest attacks on their country are broadcast live on Arabic news channels – the bombardment of Beirut’s southern suburbs just a few kilometres away can be heard across the city.

Lebanon has recovered from conflict before – and there’s still hope of a diplomatic breakthrough.

But even if an early solution to the current crisis IS found, the extensive damage already inflicted to Lebanon’s infrastructure – and its international reputation – will blight it for years to come.

“Will it end soon? Do you think it will?” is the question I’m asked daily when I visit the few shops and cafes in Beirut that are still open for business. I wish I could confidently answer “yes.”

Just over three years ago, when I was first learning to walk using the artificial leg that now attracts quizzical stares from the few people left on Beirut’s streets, I couldn’t even bear to look at it. It seemed to symbolise everything I lost when that landmine exploded in Northern Iraq.

But over time the feeling of revulsion slowly faded, life returned to normal, and attaching a prosthesis made of metal and carbon fibre to end of my leg every morning didn’t seem so strange any more.

A few days ago I wore a pair of shorts so my artificial leg was very visible. I was walking back to the Hotel when a car screeched to a halt beside me, the driver jumped out and I held my breath.

“How did you lose your leg?” he asked.

“A landmine in Iraq”, I replied. He reached down, rolled up one of his trouser legs and showed me his artificial leg. “Meet his older brother!” he cried.

Even during the most desperate times, hope, humanity and even humour always return - eventually.