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Joe Cawley, our Canary Islands diarist explains why he is reaching 'tipping point' in Tenerife.
By Joe Cawley
I always thought that island fever was a figment of the imagination. Or at best an affliction that only affected those living in total isolation on a deserted sandy mass the size of a double bed sheet. But I was wrong. You don't have to be Robinson Crusoe for this malaise to take hold.
I've discovered that living on any island of comparatively small dimensions does some strange things to you.
Take me. I'm now medically compelled to travel to alleviate sporadic bouts of island fever that leave me with a nasty rash and an uncontrollable urge to shout obscenities at the top of my voice.
The disease has also manifested itself by making me psychotically niggly about the smallest things. Like litter for one.

Now I'm not talking about the odd cigarette tossed negligently out of a car window. I'm talking about BIG litter. Like fridges. And shower units.
It appears to be quite commonplace for the local population to get rid of unwanted household goods by chucking them into the nearest barranco (ravine) - a self-designated landfill if you like, but without the aesthetic benefit of the covering up bit.
The result? Some of the prettiest rural towns and villages are bordered by the unsightly image of broken ironing boards stuck mid-surf down steep valleys. Or unwanted white goods protruding from the slopes like a giant breed of fungi.

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