YORK is a wonderful place to live. Yes, we have our fair share of yobs, drunks and vandals, but we also have the Minster, the rivers and the culture.

It's lovely. It's super. It's the Nirvana of the north. And yet... living in York has its downsides too. And it is these typically quirky irritations that make sane individuals such as me want to chuck ourselves in the Ouse.

Geese. Yes, we're lucky to live in a city packed with happily waddling wildlife and, yes, it is delightful to see fluffy little goslings take their first faltering steps. But do those steps have to be so darned slow?

The nature of my life means I'm always late for whatever I'm supposed to be doing, so coming across a line of geese strolling nonchalantly across the road is not my favourite thing in the world.

Especially because I think they do it on purpose. They could dash across quickly in a bunch (herd perhaps, or it is gaggle?); they could even fly if the whim took them. But instead they choose to flip-flap slowly across the road, looking you straight in the eye and daring you to think of roast potatoes.

Fulford. Am I missing something here? I can see Fulford is a perfectly nice part of the city, but why does everyone insist on talking about it in such hushed, reverential tones. They whisper 'Fulford' in the same way they might whisper 'Shangrila'. We've never been there ourselves, their tone implies, but we've heard tales of its beauty and hope one day we might be lucky enough to visit its rolling hills and lush valleys.

It's just a suburb, you know, not the blummin' Valley Of The Kings.

PR people. In my line of work I come into contact with PR people almost on a daily basis. Most are chatty and friendly and bear an uncanny resemblance to normal human beings.

But some, usually young women with unfeasibly posh names such as Babushka and Titania (known to her friends as Titty), are definitely not of this world.

After several minutes of explaining that we are not the Yorkshire Post and this is not Leeds, the funny little fluff-heads then inevitably say: "York? Oh, how utterly delicious. It must be simply super to live in the country (pronounced 'cantry')."

"It must be," I yell (in my head, while tearing my hair out in clumps and throwing it across the office). "But this is a city - we do have them up north you know."

Tourists. I've got nothing against them visiting our fair city, particularly if they bring their bulging wallets with them, I just wish they could all be cleared from the streets for an hour at 1pm.

That is usually when the powers-that-be at this hallowed newspaper allow me to leave the building, under strict instructions not to speak to strangers or accept sweets from men with comb-overs and grubby macs.

I inevitably have one or two boring errands to run, buying socks for a two year old who insists on growing every time my back is turned and presents for a six year old who goes to more birthday parties than Harold Pinter, and a limited amount of time in which to do them.

I also have to squeeze in the unenviable task of trying to find a sarnie that costs less than a Fiat Punto and tastes better than a string bag full of sawdust, which is more difficult than you may imagine.

What I don't need while storming about town are tourists tootling around admiring the architecture and stopping dead, without any warning whatsoever, to photograph pigeons.

Get a move on.

Phew! I'm glad I got that little lot of my chest. They say a little of what you fancy does you good. But I think a good old moan is even better.

Updated: 09:22 Monday, May 30, 2005