The fat of the land

We were back in Old Blighty last week. All hell broke loose in the form of a thunderstorm ten minutes after we got off the plane. Everyone repeatedly assured us what fantastic weather the UK had been having. We assured them could not possibly be as nice as Nice. The train from Derby to Sheffield took us through the Dales and allowed me that special appreciation of the English countryside reserved for ex-pats. I was pleased by the romantic, fluffy trees, they’re very different from palms and olives and oranges. The only negative was (yet another) obese woman from “daan saath” who insisted on chatting on her mobile phone for the whole journey about how awful her desk job was. It’s hard not to get dragged in. We’ve grown to like not being able to understand other people’s conversations.

Strangely, there are no crottes de chien in England! Where do they all go?

The British media is still twitting on about Iraq in its disjointed and pseudo-neutral way. Now we have the not so astonishing revelations of war-crimes committed by American and English soldiers, the mistreatment and sexual abuse of Iraqi prisoners, etc. Why is this a surprise to everyone? Did no one really see it coming? What did you think a bunch of ignorant soldiers would do when they got hold of some of “thum thar terrorist Ay-rabs”? Clearly the death and suffering exchange rates of Iraqis to nice white middle class New Yorkers is approximately 50-1 – fifty eyes for an eye. If I hear the phrase “you Aye-raqis should be grateful for us liberatin’ you from an evil dictator like Saddam” one more time I will hijack the Goodyear Blimp and repeatedly bounce it off Canary Wharf myself.

In other extremely predictable news, the Brits seem to be swelling before our very eyes. We came back to (yet another) news article about Brits being told to start dieting and exercising. I am sure the Sheffielders are even more obese than they were at Christmas. Even the staff at the office have put on weight (and acne) …apparently as a result of going on weight watchers. I think Britain will shortly reach critical mass and sink into the North Sea. Put the potatoes and pasta down, please, before we become extinct through coronaries and infertility!

French gastronomy is not for the Rosemary Conleys of this world. The French eat more saturated fat than any other nation. It fills them up so they eat less, whereas Brits with their “healthy” low-fat diets are the ones who get the cancer, heart attacks and are constantly hungry and scoffing on crap out of vending machines. In Nice I am surrounded by gorgeous tall slender women with incredible waist-to-hip ratios I can only dream of.

I finally got my sister on Atkins about six weeks ago. She’s usually irritable and over-sensitive, but according to my father she’s now “positively serene all of the time”. She’s bought an Alsatian puppy that drops crottes de chien all over the house and eats her Ikea furniture and designer trainers. Whilst I was there my mother and mama said things that would normally provoke her, the dogs bounced all over the furniture and fought everywhere (one ran slap bang into the glass of the French window), and the atmosphere was very overwrought, but there we both were as calm as cows, taking it all in with the same detached amusement. She said to me “it totally changes your emotions and outlook and everything”.

Worst news is this: J. has finally spoken to a tax advisor – we just can’t stay, it’s going to be too expensive. Come August I’ll be back in obese Old Blighty buying expensive green vegetables from M&S, assuring everyone what amazing weather we had at the weekend and examining the grey sky for patches of blue. The only crottes de chien will be the ones dropped by Mr Blair while Mr Bush patiently holds his lead on the morning walk around the park.