Good Morn, Noon, or Eventide dear loyal band of blog browsers. As in the classical tradition, approximately five centauries have elapsed, give or take, since my last sprawling blog post. May I blame the tardiness on my extended period of living (3 weeks definitely counts as living) in Morocco…its pretty bloody difficult to lift your hand to write, hold a pen without it sweatily flowing out of your fingers, or even, say, reach for your lighter that happens to be just out of bingo wing’s reach whilst it’s approximately 55 degrees and your entire life has turned into an exercise in docility, powered by a diet of tagine, shitty cigarettes and sweet mint tea.
Morocco- as insane and colourful and illogical and long and short and wonderful as a dream.
Frequently, due to sleep and air condeprevation, sadly, coupled with the oh just DARLING, partydontstoptill5am Moroccan weddings that occurred frequently just next door, crazy, hallucinatory dreams were often suffered by urz truliez, frequently resulting in bouts of insomniac madness, leaving me a burka’s breadth from kicking an orphan or two down a flight of stairs (or two).
Prior to gadding about with a bunch of a-rabs, I have been mudding about at Gla-rabs:
And swaying wildly about at parklife with k-dabs
(authors note: I have completely made up the phrase ‘k-dabs’ and have honestly, officer, no Idea what one is, or even if such a preposterous sounding thing as a k-dab actually exists. Moi? Neighhh.)
Back in Londonsville, with nothing to declare except a room now full of ludicrously miss matched genuine Moroccan items, I merrily snap on my shiny work shoes and dart, bambi like (bambi with bleeding heels caused by shiny work shoes) off to work, to flog ate-too-many-nerds-gotta-vomit coloured Mulberry hand bags to ungrateful bitches and their poor, clueless boyfriends, whom will probably be hit with said bags by said bitches for buying them the wrong shade or size of tacky, mass produced bullcrap.
Gimme some Givench or Celine or A-Wang any day of the week. Every day of the week. Eight days a week. Fold me up inside one and I will live inside it happily for every day for the rest of my life.
Milliseconds of free time however forsooth, have allowed me both to imbibe a couple of local cultural offerings, one being the amazing regailations of Live Canon, randomly spouting live Shakespeare sonnets randomly on the street to the joy of yuppies passing by…
…and the ethereal (ethereality sponsored by Jack Daniels and Mr Whippy) grace of Peggy Sue and the Pirates live in Northampton Square.
Until Next time,
Shuukran.
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