A mare usque ad mare

For an Island girl born minutes from the sea, Bristol might as well be the Midlands. The salty whiff of day-old haddock in my kitchen makes me sigh and gets me yearning for a sea breeze, conjuring up memories of my odyssey to the Great Barrier Reef. Ahh, flipper fresh and salty wet-suits. Reef fish 'n' chips on the menu, don't mind if I do.

So, when I heard that the Roman Thermal Spa at neighbouring sister city Bath had finally reached completion and was ready for guests, I jumped into that ol' bikini and strapped on the goggles like an Olympian. Well, truth be told, I waited a year or so... you've got to wait for the first couple of cases of meningitis and swine 'flu to work their way through those warm springs. Actually this is the first summer in quite a while I've had enough energy to go places, so it was pretty exciting. I have devised a series of mini trips to get me in the holiday mood.

To my delight I found that as a "disabled person" I get a whopping 50% off the entrance fee, so I dug out one of the doctor's notes from my heavy file marked "General Health" and showed it to the Parisian male receptionist on my arrival. With a flicker of disinterest he replied, "yes, that will be fine," so I gleefully handed over my £11. My new young French amis then launched into a list of complicated instructions of how to enjoy one's stay within the allotted time. This included various suggestions such as, "there is a bar on the second floor and if you should choose to have a drink there you can extend your stay by an extra 45 minutes." Is he asking me out on a date? I wondered. He then explained that it was better to "start at the top and work your way down,"(imagine that French accent) much to my amusement, and ended by showing me through to the changing rooms with a calm, "enjoy your stay. I will see you later."

I did enjoy my stay, and didn't really need the whole two hours. Much of it was spent waddling around the hallways in my flip flops and a very soggy towel reading shiny signs and testing out strange looking wicker arm chairs. I will certainly go back and maybe have that drink. That rooftop hot jacuzzi spring was delicious.

This summer I will also be testing out my new tent on the lawn, going to the beach repeatedly, knitting in public places, and seeing Joolz Holland at the Larmer Tree Festival next month also avec tent for a quick pre-boogie-woogie kip. Hmm trip the light campervantastic.

Organic Crunch

Up until today I put off worrying about the financial crisis. I saw it as a healthy use for procrastination. Up until today.

When Woolworths went, ok, that was quite significant but I thought, “one less corporate capitalist pig high street eye sore to prise the hard earned cash from our wallets. One less beacon of evil, drawing us ignorantly like moths to the flame of materialistic emptiness.” And in a way, we all smirked, didn't we? Yes, it was a shame... all those poor people lost their jobs, but what have the rest of us really lost? Pick 'n' mix, Barbie dolls, ring binders and Peter Andre CDs. On the up side we thought, perhaps the smaller businesses will benefit. Perhaps those companies with globally ethical standards will fill the gap in the canopy of the high street jungle. Companies like Fresh and Wild, the small Soho chain of organic supermarket not long ago branched out to Bristol for example. Perhaps my arse. Benefit? Vanish more like. The only place in town I could eat out with my complex diet... they had gluten-free, vegan, dairy-free organic meals for under £6 a plate. True, it is a luxury kind of a retailer (unless you are me and don't eat like a Franciscan monk for the mere fun of it, but because your guts are broken). No, what hit me is suddenly there is less choice. Should I buy my organic ethically sourced puy lentils from this shop in town or on the next street over? I mean boo hoo, big deal, but it does make you realise how good it's been until now. You see, if you wanted mung beans hand picked on the North side of Samoa, served on a bed of vegan cold pressed tofu with a side order of egg-free falafel, you could bloody well get it. Now in its place stands a dumb furniture showroom. And they didn't even bother to tell me, that's what gets my goat. Without warning, a War of the Worlds style hole in the ground Triffid creature swallowed my precious organic supermarket. They took down Fresh and Wild, but if they take my Asda or Argos I may well get chav rage and can not be held responsible for my actions.

Speaking of chavs, ironically, for reasons completely unrelated to the current economic state of the world, I am very poor. I moved to a shiny new council flat and have a lot of bills, is all. So, what have I done about it? Having gone through my finances with a 'toothcomb' as they say in these parts (yes, Bristollians do speak like pirates), I realised I spend inordinate amounts of money on hair cuts, or what I call 'male chauvinist pig tax.' So, I went to the local college and got a cut and blow dry for £5.70 instead of £30. It took the little over two and a half hours, mind, and I did get rather a damp neck when tepid water got sloshed down there, but a very nice hair cut and a feeling that I'd done a good deed for a hard working student. A warm fuzzy feeling, in fact. Better than Woolies any day.

Why my hallway looks like a couple of newspaper vendors had a fight over a packet of pork rinds.

Alas, I have no camera, but you can take my word for it. The answer is about 72cms off the ground, black with a snuffly nose, brown eyes, and clocked an average speed of 30m/ph until last summer. Yes, it's a retired greyhound, and boy has this been interesting.

Other things my greyhound can do:
Make his eyes go the the right and his nose to the left
Fart whilst snoring and dreaming of farting and snoring
Eat a whole bone the size of my hand, and nearly also my hand in the excitement causing me to grab his collar, which pings off and hits me above the eye, making it bleed and leaving me with a shiner for a week fit for any self-respecting be-greyhounded puffer jacket wearing dutchess on yer council estate
Sleep more than I do - yowzer
Make me very happy

So far our adventures have involved fireworks, said shiner incident, trips to the osteopath, doctor, homeopath, hairdresser (those were for me) and many, many short walks to the bushes (those were for him), some involving poopy bags breaking and warm sensations, some successfully neat and not involving "oh, ugh ugh ugh" being muttered between gritted teeth, coolly remembering not to put my hands in my pockets or touch my face for the rest of the walk, and extra wash loads of revolting brown stained things in the old rental tub.

And let me tell you they have been adventures, what with the small furry traffic about the horizon, he thinks he's in rabbit heaven. Usually we are the biggest blob on the landscape, but many dogs of all sizes want to attack Lad for some reason. Perhaps they are intimidated, or maybe jealous of his snazzy red jacket upon which I pinned an Armistice Day poppy.

People also react in bizarre ways, both positive and negative. But whatever the reaction you bet there'll be one. Finally I am not invisible, and I am not alone. My M.E. has been put out to air in the shape of a big black gentle dog. This really is pet therapy.

Today on our field walk we met two shin height spaniels, covered almost entirely in sticky mud except for a spot on the top of their heads. The lady said to me "Ooh, they thought your dog was a horse!" And I thought yeah, lady I wouldn't want to be you when you get home. Your living room must look like a horse rolled in it and then climbed up the walls.

More adventures to follow. Here's what Zigzag Dutchlad (aka "Lad") has been doing for the last five years till he met me. The picture is not him, it's one of his champ brothers, but he did come first in 27 races out of 69. http://www.greyhound-data.com/d?i=1077374

Now, where's that speed camera? Lad just woke up, scooched over to get a better view of the kitchen, yawned and closed his eyes again. 30m/ph couch potato more like.

Walk in the park

Having ME is like you are wearing a suit of armour and someone asks you, "fancy a walk in the park?" It sounds really tempting, but...

Dog v boyfriend

I have been thinking of getting a dog to keep me company. I thought it would be better than a boyfriend because a dog won't argue back, and will listen to everything I say, adoring me unconditionally. However, I will have to take him for all those walks. A romantic relationship of any kind is high maintenance though, even a stalker is stressful and he does all the work for you, sitting out there in the rain with his torch. Well, maybe since he's out there, my stalker can walk the dog. Problem solved.

Life in the cracks

Living with a fatigue syndrome is like living life in the cracks on the paving stones. There are little flowers growing there and bright green moss, if you look closely. I would like a whole great bush of budding flowers, but only have the cracks between the slabs to grow anything in. I make the most of the cracks between the slabs and the flowers there are more beautiful than ever.

Quite very surely English

We often say 'quite' and mean 'very'
but also sometimes mean 'quite'.
We say 'not really' meaning 'absolutely not'
and when we say we are sure
it very rarely means we are.
Funny that.

Eco Friendly?

I want to save the world, I really do. But have you noticed how cashiers have taken the no-bag policy as an excuse for rudeness towards their fellow man? It is as if they now have license to finally express their true bitterness towards humans. The number of times I have been into a shop, any shop in the last year or so, and been left standing with a pile of round squashy food and awkward boxes, piled precariously on a cashier's counter in front of me, and once the cashier has dispensed with hurriedly beeping the items in, just to stand there looking blankly into space, is beginning to bother me. I then am forced to state the obvious and enquire meekly, “Could I have a bag please?” and they either say “yes” but glare judgingly, or say “they're 5 pence each” in a tone that really means “I may kill your grandmother in the night.” Because of this, they do not say good bye, or look you in the eye when you leave.

The odd thing is, this attitude developed in the blink of an eye. How come these random people suddenly care so deeply about plastic bags? Do they wear hemp underpants and ride bamboo bicycles? From what I see, they wear Primark like anyone else. Are they the superior race somehow? Is plastic hatred more important than a friendly “hello”? Even for the sake of good business? I've been trying to shop locally like a good global citizen, which is not easy with post-viral jip, because carrying heavy things is difficult enough, but this plastic-bag-Nazism is becoming a bit of a bummer. It's really hard to carry a pound of tomatoes, two large potatoes, some nectarines and eight apples in your fist, wrestling an umbrella and clenching an environmental newspaper under my girly arm. Plus, chivalry has gone out of fashion so if you drop it, you pick it up, sister.

I read a letter in a local paper from a considerate lady asking whether people thought it acceptable for her to hang her washing in the front garden in a picturesque neighbourhood, because she was worried that her neighbours would object. The reply came that people who don't hang their washing out should be publicly shunned from society because they obviously use a tumble drier. And people who use a tumble drier are a pestilence on society.

I am beginning to understand how the Nazi's came to power. Nature can look after itself, it is the humans you have to watch out for.

Emjoy this video of a plastic bag monster:

Never Netherland

England didn’t qualify for Euro 2008 so I decided to support Holland. Genetically speaking, I’m half Dutch (give or take the odd Spaniard), but have never lived there and am not bilingual, it feels more like a third. However, these last two weeks I’ve experienced a freaky football-induced genetic drift.

Holland started the tournament looking like champions. They played with vibrant energy, knocking back the Italian football giants, delectably punishing France with an astonishing 4:1, and finally teaching the Romanians a lesson.

So I rolled up my sleeves and put the kettle on.

Being only a bi-annual football national game supporter, it’s taken about 10 years to refine my knowledge of the rules well enough to follow this year’s tournament with Dutch commentary. But to watch professional football at this level is something not to be missed. I could write about the poetry in motion, the astounding level of fitness that allows these men to sprint repeatedly up a hundred metre over two hours, keeping the mental focus needed to plan 8 moves ahead, but ready to change tack at any moment in a split second. I could say it’s life in miniature, an elegant battle, a ballet. But it would sound like I knew what I was talking about, which I don’t.

All I know is, I found myself reading up on the Dutch players and their coach, match analysis, watching the other games to see who they were up against, and realising there’s probably more politics going on in football than there is in politics itself. Footballers in the UK earn up to £100,000 a week. That’s more than £5 million a year. Football is money is power. What’s more, it’s a schoolboy’s dream. Marco Van Basten coached the Netherlands this year. The former top Ajax striker helped to beat Germany and win Euro 1988, and scoring five goals in the whole tournament, it felt like providence that he was the one to blast the team into the quarter finals a decade on. A towering majestic character, he seemed well placed to motivate the team with an experienced player's passion for football. But who beat them tonight? Russia. Russia!!

And who managed the Russian team? Only the former Dutch coach and experienced compatriot Guus Hiddink. Each sporting a black armband in respect for Khalid Boulahrouz, mourning the loss of his newborn earlier this week, they looked more like a wake party than a national football squad, and certainly their spark was gone. Finally Van Nistelroy squeezed in a frustrated equaliser, only to end on 3:1 in extra time, dashing hopes of that sweet orange victory.

But it was fun while it lasted, and if all else fails, I am technically one eighth German, and they’ve made it to the semis! Just don’t expect me to cheer, wave a German flag or crack open the sauerkraut, ok? I’m running out of genes.

English Reserve

The English reserve is world renowned.

During my post-graduate Euro-bumming Prozac-popping years (great a degree, but what to do with it?), I found myself returning from Genova, Italy to Gatwick airport. Having become acclimatised over previous weeks to Italian elbow-happy public behaviour, I was warmly surprised on my return home. A cockney gezer (he could have been a Dick van Dyke chimbley sweep) politely stepped around my heavily laden baggage trolley with a cordial if somewhat proletariat, "Excuse me, luv." I think he even doffed his hat. Aah, I sighed, good old Blighty. In Italy I had learned to block out the indecent propositions in broad daylight and incessant dribbling "ciao bella"s drawled by men literally pulling up chairs on the street. They didn't seem to do much work in Italy - even in the Industrial city of Milan.

Where did our historical English obsession with Italy come from? There was The Grand Tour, novelists swept away to villas in the rolling Tuscan hills. It's beyond me, you'd think the English would not like their bottoms pinched, and their bowler hats knocked off. It's just not cricket.

English people like their own space. Take an English seaside resort. It's a bank holiday August weekend complete with freak heatwave - the plebs descend in their thousands. But is there eye contact? Are we bothered by claustrophobia? No. Entire extended families nestle neatly on their own few square feet of sand, and keep all hands, eyes, sunburned flab, dribbling ice creams and slopping buckets completely contained. Everyone there has undressed under a towel and no one has seen an inch of inappropriate flesh. A grand day out is had by all.

It was once said that if there is a room full of English people at a party, and nobody is speaking, it's because they haven't been introduced. Dead silence prevails.

However, sometimes you catch a quirky glimpse of a thaw. Beneath the chilly exterior we are a warm and practical people. Like steak and kidney pie. Take the dog walkers. A classic example of where people have something in common, strangers will open up to one another. I was on Frenchay Common outside Bristol, and there came a couple walking their dog. Coming the other way was a man with exactly the same breed of terrier. As they passed each other there was a pause, then I heard, "don't worry, he's been done."

How quaint. We may be a crowded isle but we take all the necessary precautions.