Green grass, brown grass.

Man alive it's getting tough here on the Island.

Compadres are dropping like flies, the credit crunch is sweeping through the expats like wild firefire feeding on the tinder dry fuel of an ecomony starved of the lifeblood of the luxury Euro. Property prices are in freefall, the summer tourist season, a vital adrenalin shot in the arm of the expat economy, is about to start, soon, tomorrow, next month, sometime, anytime?.

There many here who's existence is inextricably linked to the Sterling price of a Euro, move a bip or two and life is grand, a bip or two the other way and it's all over. These are long odds on which to wager a life, but that's just the way it is for many.

An old adage has it that the people who made the money from the gold rush were the smart guys who sold the shovels. Right here the briskest business is that being plied by the removal firms bubble wrapping the Mediterranean dream and driving it back to Nottingham or Manchester, Mansfield or Basildon, minus a pound or two at best.

To continue for a moment with the tired cliches, the grass is always greener. Jack it in here, jump on the next EasyJet and get a job back in the UK..easy, right.

Wrong.

They have a recession there too remember.

In their place are countless numbers seeking an equally misguided refuge in a move in the opposite direction.

Wherever you are...

..hunker down, duck the rent man, eat lentils. At least the sun is shining....which will turn the grass brown.