Ninth entry.

I’ve just come back from a holiday in Greece with the family. Skiathos to be precise. I was glad to see that there was enough food for us guests, unlike one bright-spark Brit had expressed concern upon the televisual news.

Before the 2009 financial crisis, Greece had some of the lowest suicide rates in the world. There was a 40% rise in the number of suicides in the first half of 2010 alone, according to the Health Ministry.

My Brother offered some useful insight into the situation.

“The worst thing about Greece is that you have a shower, and then you get sweaty and have to have another shower.”

He was right; I was sweaty for quite a lot of the time. But this was held back from the holiday feedback form, for I had plenty of reasons to be cheerful during my stay.

Lady Gaga’s yacht was rumoured to be lurking along the cost, I ate kebabs on almost a daily basis and I got to kill mosquitoes in my room with a copy of the highway code every night.

And whilst I have been living it up in Liverpool for the past few months, drinking only from plastic cups and eating crisps lying down, the time has come for returning home to Wales for a while, with a healthy measure of self-improvement once again.

There still remains an aching part of me that wants to regress back to simpler times; to eat play dough and put lego up my nose and bum, but this cannot happen, as I have to go to London, for a job that I went and git. In International journalism. With a human rights charity. What luck!

As excited as I am to move to another new city, I’ll miss my dog, Oscar, who has a penchant for eating the contents of sanitary bins and is adorable in a completely disgusting sort of way.

Following his return from dog concentration camp (kennels), he has returned a slimline version of his once curvaceous self and stinking of piss. Incidentally, whilst dogs take delight in rolling in the faeces of others, they do not appreciate having to live in their own.

Once vivacious and charismatic, he has a subdued, faraway look behind the eyes. It’s as though he’s reluctant to remember the past, perhaps akin to doggy Vietnam, or like if you asked Rose to talk about Jack in Titanic, but then replaced them with dogs.

Perhaps I should send him to the next summit debate; to put things into perspective for the Greeks...