BRITISH summertime. Bah humbug. I pity the hardworking people whose toil to organise fetes and entertainment has come to nothing, ruined by the atrocious July weather.

While we should all be basking in the sunshine we're huddled up in winter fleeces sheltering from the ever leaking skies.

It's no wonder more people are packing up and heading for new lives in sunny climes. I'm amazed at the number of families selling off the family silver at car boot sales and announcing they're sick of this country and off to try pastures new.

It seems like a dream to be able to waken with the sun on your head every morning and the oppression of the permanently grey skies lifted.

In reality it's not all that it seems. I speak from experience. I've tried living that dream and it didn't work for me.

When you have to toil endless hours to make a living working in unrelenting heat and cope with a different culture, life becomes less than a bed of roses.

I got sick of pounding the same streets, meeting the same people, doing the same things, the bugs, cruelty to animals and having sweat pouring from every follicle even in the early hours of the morning.

I got used to throwing a bucket of water on my bed before getting in, but I never got used to waking up to see cockroaches on the ceiling.

I was glad to come home to days with four seasons in one, and when I hear all the would-be ex-pats planning their moves to the Med and beyond I don't envy them. Despite the declining standards in this country I'm reasonably happy with my lot.