The key to mingling with the natives in any environment, be it country, city, town or village, is to look terribly, terribly bored.

Get a mental picture in your head to help you.  I quite like thinking about listening to people waffle on about The Da Vinci Code, and what a fabulous book it is.  Then hold it.  Try not to look at too many buildings or interesting sites either - you’re supposed to be bored, remember?  And if you’re feeling brave, venture a little tut tut or a sigh at those fools who do show enthusiasm for any of their surroundings.  Because that’s how bored and native you are.  Bloody tourists.

I remember trying this when I first moved to London, and it worked rather well.  Sadly this didn’t work so well on Wednesday when I bumbled over to Paris to check out Splinter Cell 4, as the blighters kept asking me questions in another language.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, they expected me to answer them in another language back!  The bloody cheek.  Clearly this is why humanity is going to the dogs.

Whenever I try to think French, I think in Italian.  Whenever I try to think Italian, I think Spanish.  Whenever I try to think Spanish, I think Japanese.  And whenever I try to think Japanese, I think of “Moshi moshi!  Kore wa pen desu!”

Which, surprisingly, is no use to a French taxi driver asking you to tell him the place of your destination.

Lexical smatterings aside, everyone I encountered was incredibly, super-dooperly nice.  Part of the reason I love this job is that you get to meet people just as passionate about the same things you are.  A bit like when you used to walk into school and everyone was banging on about last night’s episode of Neighbours, and what a cheeky rascal that Joe Mangle bloke was - you felt connected, even if you did have to suppress your feelings that you secretly thought he was a bit dishy.

Still, you don’t want to hear about Joe Mangle, do you?  You want to hear about Splinter Cell 4.  Well TOUGH!

If I told you that I’d have to not only break both of your legs, but both of my legs too, which wouldn’t be much fun at all.  Although, needless to say it is very shiny indeed, and check back early next month for more gossip.  Ooh, aren’t I a tease?

Instead you’re going to have to hear me babbling on about Nintendogs.  Aah, how I hate, loathe and despise Nintendogs.  It’s like a disease.  A horrible, life-crippling disease that stalks you wherever you go, gnawing into your waking and sleeping life.

For those of you who have escaped this cancerous ball of fluffy death, allow me to give you a brief over-view.  You have a puppy (to answer the immediate question that pops into most people’s minds - no, you can’t kill it.) Your goal is to keep your puppy happy by feeding it, brushing it, training it and taking it for walks.  You can also enter it into various competitions, which in turn generates cash so you can buy more puppies and puppy supplies.

My puppy is called Death.  Death is stupid.  He likes to chase his tail a lot when I’m trying to pet him.  He also likes falling onto his back and waving his legs in the air when I try and take him for walks.  He brings me empty, broken bottles of juice as presents.  He can’t remember his name.  He likes running backwards in agility trials, and stares at me with those cute, stupid little eyes as he gnaws merrily away on a Frisbee I should be throwing to him during a disc competition.

My sleeping pattern has been ruined, replaced with a constant feeling of guilt.  Sleep?  Why sleep when you can be shampooing and brushing the little swine’s hair and feed him beef jerkys?  But they won’t thank you for it, oh no.  Leave your game alone for three days and your little darling will run away from home, probably off to some super doggy hotel where they sit and laugh and mock you over dry martinis, telling their friends what a horrible, dirty owner you are.

So why do I play it?

Because Nintendogs is like the ultimate, high-maintenance girlfriend - every waking moment you’re plotting how to choke her to death in a flood of blonde highlights, but the prospect of having the little harpy leave you fills you with fear and shame.  You must have more trainer points than your friends.  You must unlock all the breeds.  Failure is not an option, and you’ll be damned if Fifi down the road completes an obedience trial with a higher score than you.

So, to sum up, don’t buy Nintendogs.  It’s a horrible, terrible game, reducing grown adults to cooing, jibbering morons, and that’s even before you start shouting “Bum in the air!  Roll over!” on public transport.  Buy a real dog instead.  It’s less hassle.

Oh, and check out my cosplay guide too.  Go on.

And, er, feed the ducks at your local pond.

Because ducks need love too, y’know.