I am on holiday, Day 10

There is not much to say, other than my brother, Runningmonkey, is now married to the loveliest girl in the world. It was good, and everyone is happy. Particularly them.

I am on holiday, Day 9

"I have a friend", says my father, "with a cat organ, who made Prince Charles cry with laughter".  "Not only that",  I add.  "He lives in a biscuit factory and once made a keyboard out of biscuits for Tony Banks." "I won't get in to how we met", says Monkeyfather, "but I would like to talk to you about him."

We are sitting on top of yet another astonishing riad in Marrakech that looks from the outside like it might be a ladies' prison but, once inside, is a hotel of fancyluxe of the kind that makes me confused. Still, the view from the terrace on the top is worth the climb and the sausage rolls are nice, and we are drinking the rosywine and wondering if it is sensible to move from Canada to Africa.

Something passes across the face of the man we are talking to. He is a publicist. "I should tell you that I represented Andrew Lloyd-Weber for three-and-a-half years", he says, looking at his shoes.

We are not quite sure what to do with this information, so we change the subject instead to the incident in which the words "... so he stuck a pound coin up his anus which meant he could get the bus home" wafted across the pool at a volume higher than was (we are sure) intended, and drink some more wine.

Later that evening we eat the food of Morocco.  I order badly, because however delicious the pastilla in question, I have never been very good at the sugar/meat combo. The couscous of my 'husband' is however magnificent, and I am quite the fan of the oranges, despite the glace cherries.  A fight breaks out about these. "You don't see those much in England anymore", says an Englishman.  "What are you talking about? Have you been to Tesco recently?", says his other 'arf, a Frenchman who knows more about British cookery than Jane Grigson.

Still. On Saturday (which is today) is it my brother's wedding, so here are some pictures. Until then, I remain

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 8

A dark day yesterday. The Waterpoos began in the night; a day out of joy for my future sister-in-law was cut short by the sweats and an inability to eat a delicious breakfast, and finished in a bed wrapped in jerseys and blankets, despite it being 98 degrees outside.   The evening was spent with a club sandwich and sorbets of various fruits and the first two episodes of the BBC's Sherlock Holmes.

I am recovered now, thanks to sleep and the ministrations of the two Doctors (one my husband, a pathologist, and the other the sister of my sister-in-law and now sister of mine, a person doctor).

The club sandwich was breakfast; here it is:

The pre-sweat attempt at breakfast at the Jardin Majorelle offered many delights, including:

We were not sure what would happen if you cupped the pistachios near the banana slit, but we thought it best not to think about it too much.

I also met my cousin, Nonworkmonkah. Here is a hurried snapshot of him protecting the handle of the mint tea teapot.

Later, to the Medina on a bus. There will be photographs. You mark my words.

Pip Parp Pip!

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 7

Yes. It is 7am.  People still find it necessary to send me emails about work to my home email address, so they ping into my "iPhone" (which is a miniature internet) and wake me up. Also sometimes they call me and also wake my husband up. I then find out that Marrakech is on 'special King time', so we are in fact an hour behind London rather than an hour ahead. It makes no sense, a bit like cucumber.

I have no picture of my breakfast yesterday because I forgot to take it, but it was a small, slightly runny omelette and a bun. Both were very pleasant. The entire day was spent lying around the preposterously lovely pool pretending to read and doing ironic high fives at the sight of various family members and friends and enormous bottles of rosywine.

Now I have the Waterpoos. I do not know where from, but my tummy doesn't hurt so I think it will be over soon.  I have done my counselling for this morning (see phone calls, above) and today I will go on the day out of love for my future sister-in-law, which involves brunch at Yves Saint Laurent's garden and other similarly charming activities.   Later, there may be dancing.

  

I am on holiday, Day 6

Ring ring. Ring ring. Hello? Yes. It is me. No, sorry. I am not able to do any of those things you wish me to do because I am spending a week in looooooxury.  Goodbye.

We are in Marrakech.  I am not saying it is better than Hastings, but it is certainly very different. We are not in the teeming centre, but in La Palmeraie in a hotel 'enclosure' so fancy that I am not able to see straight. The French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist with whom I share my life (and fleas) is currently sleeping on a gigantic bed strewn with rose petals. I am sitting under a sort of canopy thing and there is grass and lawns and ornamental ponds and lanterns and blue blue blue sky etc.

Breakfast yesterday is not worthy of note. We woke early to drive from Hastings to Gatwick, stopping at a service station off the A21 to eat a Marks & Spencer (known by my brother when he was small as "Marks and Spensive") egg and bacon sandwich and drink strange coffee.  The flight on Royal Air Maroc was uneventful; the drive involved camels and a 3-legged donkey (outside the car). Now we are here. Here is our bed:

And here is the view out of our bedroom window:

Today I will probably be lying around reading the best writer in the world (aka Jilly Cooper). Tomorrow, unbelievably, my task (according to my brother) is "to go into Marrakech with the old housekeeper and buy 50 fezzes".  No word of a fucking lie.

Pip Fez Pip

NWM