Off to France

I did a terrible thing. Skived off to France at the end of June, Iceland's

brightest month to bathe in the warm heat of the sandy beaches of the

south-west. Arrid country here, tall fir trees that cast elongated silhouettes in the afternoon sun. My pasty wintery skin is surely turning

into a far more golden hue and yes, one somehow feels a lot better after a day out in the salty sea, scrubbed clean by fine sand and nourished by rosé and oysters.

It's football fever over here just as it is in Reykjavik. Pubs fill each

night with football lovers and daily paper Le Figaro just ran an article on

how divorce rates have been proven to rise dramatically after each World Cup. There's an association called the Anti-Fussball Association that caters to those feeling lonely and angry with their football mad spouses. Chill out, I say to those frustrated French women. Stop complaining and just use spare football time to laze at the pool.

The French seem all too aware of the existance of Iceland and start guffawing Björk Björk and elves elves every time I explain my nationality. Seems that documentaries on Iceland are being shown all the time and I can't open a Marie-Claire or Elle magazine without tonnes of articles on the hipness of the Sirkus bar and the beauty benefits of the Blue Lagoon. Until I get back to the country where ballerina shoes and a bikini don't quite cut it I'm going to pretend to be Bardot for a little while longer. A bientot.

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