Friday, February 29, 2008

Feb 28th

So forget everything else. Harry is in Afghanistan. Not only that but Harry has been in Afghanistan for a couple of months now. The press stitched up a deal to keep schtum, and off he went, brave little Harry that he is. The Drudge report found out about it, told the world, and now everyone comes clean. So forget everything else. Earthquakes in Lincolnshire, (ok fair enough they were bever going to string more than a day out of that), possible mass murders of Jersey children, the world teetering on the brink of econommic collapse. Forget it. Harry's been in Afghanistan, and the story must consume every available news minute, every phone in, every minute of our every thought.
Now the story is broken of course, it's each man for himself. Apparently he's come within shooting distance of the Taliban, but he sure as hell has come a lot closer to the droves of pressmen in on the stroy from the beginning. who now believe we should be fed details of every day, every night, every meal, every shit and every wank he's had since arriving in the godforsaken sandpit.
Make no mistake, he is on the FRONT LINE . Well, actually not the front line where anyone has actually been shot at or blown to smitherines, in fact, it later transpires that he spends most of his days in a kind of garden lean to made out of mud bricks watching telly pictures of the Taliban, and occasionally getting on the blower to ask a passing plane to blow them to pieces. Reminds me of Dan's life on World of Warcraft a little.
What troubles is me is we we are expected to give a toss what he is doing, where he is doing it, how long he has been doing it for, or how much longer he'll be doing it. (Not much longer I suspect as Osama & the bruvs have presumably pinpointed his hut via the medium of News at Ten.) I also wonder about those tragic folk who spend their lives hanging on the every movement of the inbreds. Haven't they notices he's been missing these past ten weeks?
Of course the episode is used to demonstrate the natural superiority of our island race, with possibly the most absurd comment coming from Jilly Cooper, who opines, "Of course the Americans can't understand how anyone in such a position would want to put themselves in such danger. Presumably the sub plot to this is that 200 million yanks are all of the opinion that this display of derring do really does underline the fact that, run the world as they might (cos we'd really be in Afghanistan if they hadn't thought of it first), there is no substitute for good old fashioned royal british backbone. Ludicrous.
The video project continues apace. Our fast moving view on life has seen Emma enter the world, Daniel learn to hold an intelligent conversation, Elsa arrive, and I think poor old Lou has now shuffled off this mortal coil. I certainly haven't seen her for a good few tapes now. She's missed in fast rewind as in real life. Her cantankerous exhibitionism brought many a smile!

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Feb 27th

Did the earth move for me? Sadly I sept through it, and had I nt I would no doubt have assumed it was Heather moving up a league in her supersnore quest. To what do I refer? What else could it be but the earthquake!! That's it. 5.2 on the Richter scale, our best effort for 25 years. Epicentre Market Rasen, which I today discover to be in Lincs, where of course we have contacts. Dad said it reminded him of a WWII bomb going off, and 150 miles south, Malc's conjoined beds were parted at their springs.
Earhquake fever grips the land! I pick up cheery J and the first topic of conversation is the big shake. Same with Simon. Neither of them felt it, but needless to say when I get to H, his all night Red Bull supply kept him awake for the big shake up. Bastard! When do I ever go to sleep prior to 1 am, until last night.
BBC Earthqauke News (sadly the event did not quite merit a 24 hour rolling news Earthquake special) held out some hope of aftershocks (as if to confirm that this one was the BIG one, the real deal), so I will just have to stay up late tonight!
Your latest update on quake devatstation. A chimney pot fell over in Yorkshire, fracturing someone's pelvis. Eat your heart out Pakistan, Iran, Turkey, and don't let us catch you whingeing next time the ground wobbles neath your feet We lived through the big one.
H cruised round his test, and passed with 4 minors, along one of the few roads still available without vast, impassable cracks barring all routes. Who knows what we will awake to in the morn!

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Feb 26th

A late start this morning, and as I was in a virtuous mood I tried to get a few outstanding jobs done. Printed off the form to apply for registration as self employed (erm 9 months lae shh) then tried to get printer working to deal with a keyring order I received. it won't accept the paper. Rang S in Oxford to arrange an intensive course with him early next month.
Then back off to Croxley Green H has his test tomorrow, so 5 hours of trudging round test routes. Did a mock test which he blew, but I still think he should be ok tomorrow if he doesn't flood his brain with too much Red Bull.
T was also doing some strange things on his lesson, but by and large coping ok.
Back home to the video project. Sophie is now chattering intelligibly and so engagingly. Dan is on his feet, and is rumoured to be saying "Mama" and "Dada", though I have yet to hear evidence. Went on holiday to Toulon that year, it wasn't one of my favourites I have to say.
Back in the real world Dan has grown up an is semi permanently welded to his pc all night, and I am getting more and more pissed off by this laptop which keeps missing out letters.
Great prog on tele about Marlow. The place is logjammed with cars. A guy in the council shows how during the school hols the traffic runs freely as it is reduced by 20%. The logic is taken up by a roads campaigner who suggests trying to persuade people to take one day a week off from the car. The opposition they meet is at first unbending and sometimes astonishingly vitriolic. People are incredulous that they may be asked to walk a mile to take their kids to school in February. Chelsea tractor drivers abuse the woman in the street. Eventually though the idea gets hold. The 8 schools in the area vie for a prize to have the most pupils cycling to school on "no cars day." They persuade their parents. Bit by bit the mums are persuaded. A local businessman bullies and then cajoles his staff, the council is leant upon to produce brochures.
Come the great day and the streets are devoid of cars. The one and a half mile queues over the bridge are reduced to just 3 vehcles. Mothers who originally fought the plan tooth and nail walk their kids happily through empty streets, and a peleton of bikes brings happy ids perspiring healthily into school. Great stuff.
Over the pond Barak seems unstoppable but goes face to face with Hillary in a televised debate, generally reckoned to be Hill's last stand. Meanwhile Ralph Nader has declared as an indie once more, presumably to the consternation of the dems, who still blame him for Al Gore's narrow defeat (if of course defeat it was) to Bush.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Feb 25th

The morning is visciously cold. H's car roof is covered with wonderful, surresl swirls of ice, whilst mine has nodules of solid ice adhering to the surface. It was a shame to power up the heaters to thaw them all out.
Met H in Croxley Green and headed out to follow round the test routes. They seemed pretty forgiving, and he shouldn't really have a problem. He glugs down Red Bull all morning. He seems to regard this as a sleep substitute.
After him I head home. Good news on my answerphone ( I had left mobile behind), H's dad has coughed up for the course, so another £500 heading my way ater in the week. After this it's off to Maidenhead. I get S to drive most of the way to Wycombe, and she copes reasonably well.
In the evening, R4 seem to be devoting their schedule to the Tories. An interesting profile of Cameron, and then a much trailed analysis of Thatch and her aftermath from Michael Portillo. How likeable he is, has engineered himself to be almost. This was a man who's election humiliation was judged one of the three great TV moments of the last century. Were he still involved in politics, one might accuse him of the highest degree of cynicism, but I suspect he was actually shocked by his unpopularity, and resolved to demonstrate that he was not an uncaring monster, which overall he has done rather succesfully.
In the news another bloody woman killer was convicted of the murder of two women, and suspected of involvement in perhaps 20 more. I thought of Milly Dowler a few weeks ago, and couldn't remember her name. Now it transpires that this guy is the cheap suspect for her murder. I will always remember the photos of her messing around as she did her ironing, and wondering who could be so dernaged as to destroy such a happy life. Now it looks as if we know. Yet another macabre tale appears to be evolving in Jersey, where a child's body has been discovered in a children's home, and police seem to suggest that they are searching for more. Whispers become louder by the hour that a cover up will be found to involve people at the highest echelons of the Jersey government

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Feb 24th

Woken by H getting up at about 9. I snooze for an hour before rising to continue with the videoing project. It would seem I am now pissing everyone off with the endless stream of home vids on the screen. I can see their point to a certain extent, but whilst there is hours too much footage, I thoroughly enjoy the nostalgia trip, particularly the holidays. Sophie has changed in a couple of days from an inert lump into a laughing walking, and, by the end of the day, talking little happy bundle of fun. Wondefrul to see again.
I renew my accquaintance with Lt Columbo, George Hamilton proving no match. How could he doctor the video tape without thinking that the bushes had been trimmed when he did so!! Preposterous! The Lt need hardly don his raincoat for such chilish stuff!
In a rare display of teamwork, Dan, and Emsy help to wash my car with the minimum of cajoling. It looks rather good by the end, though Dan escapes back to his computer having expended the minimum of effort. Ems visits Kasum, who has recently taken delivery of a new bunny wabbit. I brace for a full on "I want one" assault on her return, but in fact she doesn't mention it. Perhaps she found out how fucking boring bunnires can be? We can but hope.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Jan 23rd

Heath is on tip top form all night. Ireland are guaranteed a gold medal in the Olypics female snoring for certain. I get the odd wink of sleep in between the gargatuan sorts and wheezes, but have no in inclination to do anything about getting up for a 9 am lesson with H.

Consequently I m not over there till a quarter to 11, and not finished till 2 ish. By the time I get home i am wrecked. I get another tape copying. Sophie has now reached her first Christmas, is stumbling around drunkenly and delighting all around. 17 year old Sophie is getting pissed off with seeing her baby self on the screen every time she walks into the room however.

I start to watch the rugby, and wake up just as it ends, with Wales having trounced Italy, oblivious to my slumber. I miss most of Ireland beating Scotland, but have to sit through the turgid English again doing for les bleus in Paris.

We decide on a meal out. I'd originally wondered about the Hand of Flowers, but downgraded the idea, principally due to likely expense. Next thought about "Eat Thai", but it was gone 9:30 when we reached town, and the prices there dictate a full evening to be spent. So twas the traditional standy of a ruby which forced it's way to the fore though in a revolutionary twist we headed not for the Curry Centre, but for "Chutney", once the Shaheen.

Not much has changed there. The staff seem consciously young, friendly and informal. As for the decor, a fish tank the thickness of a brick wall has replaced a brick wall. I am always a bit sensitive about eating next to a tankload of tropical poisson. I always expect to glance to my right to see a giant stringy turd passing serenely by as I tuck into my main course. I am seldom dissapointed.

The meal is moderate, drier than I'd like. But I do wonder if after all these years I am starting finally to tire of curry, and if so, what the hell would I replace it with?

Heather likes the Sag Aloo, and waxes lyrical about the delights of spinach, of which of course there are none, unless you can find the stuff Popeye gets hold of.
I present my own spinach menu

Epinards a la poubelle
Preparation 2 mins
Take a large bag of spinach. Chop finely , and arrange on chopping board.
Scrape spinach gently into dustbin.

Jan 22nd

TF it's Friday. I am just about done! Another 5 hour marathon in Croxley Green. It's hard to say I look forward with glee to another mega sesh with T, it's very much something to be worked through. Visit the DTC at Watford for the first time. Very much the archetype of the place. Dreary, drafty, a grim utilitarian place, perched on the edge of the A41. Apparently some tests spill straight out onto that road, which careers past at 70 miles per hour, which tends to give lie to the DSA statement that the objective is to make every test the same.
Fuell prices in Watford are below £1.00 per litre, the first time this has happened for several weeks. I wonder if this might be the last time I pay this "little" for fuel.
A brief bite to eat in Tesco's. How much blody money do I throw at them in the course of a week's snack breaks. It's strictly grapes and sushi this week though, as due to tlast weekend's illness,, my weight plummeted, and I intend to do all I can to keep it at 13st 7lbs or below. We shall see.
After a three hour lesson with T, it's home and ready for a night playing skittles with the Association members. We are a bit cut off in a room of our own, and it would be hard to say that we all strike it off like a house on fire, though J, R, and M are all good companyat various times, and H seems to strike a friendship with G the battleaxe, the best looking of the women by quite a distance. Lanky K of the AA, who I met in the DTC last week is the star of the show, and the boys triumph. It's actually quite a fun evening, with a decent buffet put on at half time. We head for a pint in the "Ship" in Marlow, and it suddenly dawns on me how bloody old we are compared with the rest of the clientelle. To the extend that I start to feel m age, and start to worry about tomorrow's early start. Whereas once, I'd be concocting strategies to be allowed to stay for ann extra couple of pints, now I am waiting impatiently for H to finish her half so I can get back to bed. Oh dear, what ever happended to that optimistic youngster on thevideos? We now have Sophie walking and gurgling, and showing some signs of being recognisable as Sophie. Her grandparents look so young it is frightening, especially as I think of them now, staring their last few years on the planet square in the mush, with little to look forward to but fiurther declining health, and a continual bombardment from M for money, favours, more money. There was a big row last night, which resulted in him yet again beating a path to our door for cash. When he got here I was supposed to be bold and berate him for once again reducing Mum to tears, but as usual, when he arrived he was nice as pie, reasonableness itself, and really helpful as I struggled to fix new hooks to the ladder on Emsy's bed. As I contemplate the little my life has amounted to, it is hard not to feel sympathy for him, I can only imagine his desperation.
Again to the more desperate. The Ipswich murderer is banged up for the rest of his days, and if we thought he was a freak, then what goes on in the head of the other guy today convicted of murder, this time of a beautiful young model in Croydon. This one claimed in his defence that he found the girl naked and dead outside her home , and then had sex with her body. And that was the best light he wanted to be seen in. FFS.

Jan 21st

It's getting harder by the ay to get up. Having two pupils on intensive courses is exhausting!. Onc again over to Croxley Green this am. Thank God it is half term week and the traffic is not what it can be. H has apparently just apeared from his pit and is grumpy almost to the point of surliness, though he does recover as the morning continues. He is pretty good, though probably not as good as he thinks he is, and is prone to ignore good advice. I hope this doesn't come back to bite him on his test.
After H, it's back to Missended to pick up T. He is actually a really nice lad, so polite, and terribly shy, but he tries really hard, and takes everything terribly seriously, perhaps too much so. When I get home I am down to my latest project, viz transfering the video tapes onto DVD. The early hours are all about days pre Sophie, when life seemed fullof all sorts of opportunities, almost all of them now missed. I can't decide whether it's an uplifting warm glow of nostalgia, or a feeling of melancholy at all those squandered chances. Do we really only get one go at thise? One bloody chance to get it right?
Someone who seems to have got it more wrong than most is Steve Wright, who was today found guilty of the murder of five young girls in Ipswich. Their pretty, happy, smiling faces give lie to the awful tragedy that was the end of their lives, whoring themselves for £20 a time on the streets of Ipswich, at the mercy of whatever turned this lunatic into what he now has become.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Feb 20th

Harder to get up earlier than yesterday, and the morning is not only cold, but damp, and a thick, greasy fog is hanging over Wycombe. It swirls around all the way to Watford and brings the traffic to a crawl. Just as I was setting out I was summoned by H, with her natural sense of timing, to attach the jump leads to the mobile skip. Immediately the burglar alarm screeches through the soupy fog, not once nor twice but thrice, doubtless to the joy of the neighbours.
H looks as though he has just got up and seems grumpy, and I suspect a little resentful as I don't move him on as quickly as he'd like. But he gets the hang of things and is making reasonable progress.
A drive from there to Prestwood where, L is making attempt no 6 on her test, and the second in a month. She is well capable of doing it, and just has to approach it in the right frame of mind. Her driving is always a little untidy, but she should be allowed a licence.
R is the examiner, the same as last time. He is his usual friendly self, though the conveyor belt nature of the job is demonstrated by the fact that he doesn't recognise L.
We manage to get out of the centre without crashing into the kerb this time, brake a bit shharply at the first roundabout, but apart from that she drives like an angel. The tension mounts as she does her left reverse. I have to lie down so have no way of knowing what goes on, but it all seems good. I peer over at Randall's score sheet and it all looks devoid of black marks. Tension grows as we head back. I start thinking. Three more junctions; don't blow it! But she never looks like making a mistake, and when R tells her the good news she shrieks with joy. Nice chat with R afterwards, he is a warm and very human fellow. Wales should be proud of him!
Take her home and say farewell. She hadn't told her family she was taking the test, though I nearly blew it when meeting her Dad. Would have like to be a fly on the wall when she broke the news, but then I usually miss that bit, which is sad.
Take her home and mooch round Asda for this evening's sustenance. On the news Obama is beginning to look as if he will pull out of reach of Hil, having won 10 states on the trot.
Spend the evening in couch spud mood, watch the scumbags salvage a 1-1 draw with their usual last gasp equaliser. Vomit!
Want to start getting the home vids on DVD, but despite scouring the loft I cannot find them. As I had been meaning to get them for a fortnight, and I was finally motivated, it was a piss off. I overturned various piles of shite in the bedroom, the annexe, the shite room, the sitting room, Dan's room, the loft, but in this bloody hovel, when something is put down it's as good as lost. Must do the shite inventory, if only to marvel at the magnitude of the catastrophe. I am beginning to resign myself to the fact that I will always live surrounded by this,, and I find it horribly depressing.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Feb 19th

A horribly early start on another very cold morning. But cold and damp today, no glorious blue skies until a little later. Fidel Castro has decided to spend more time with his cigars, but I am stuck with teacing folk to drive. Starting with H, who turns out to be a copper's son. Nice enough lad, did I detect a touch of arrogance? Maybe, time will tell. He has the basics, but again I have just a week to get him through a test. Goes well enough, though he can be a bit over confident, and I leave him with a few thoughts to mull over.
Then to S, good old S, still struggling gamely and definitely now making progress.
Next, and staying in Aylesbury is a young South African by name of T. A shy, very polite 17 year old who has done a bit of driving,He is reasonably proficient, but struggles when we get to the nitty gritty of the town, He'll be ok though, I drop him at Missenden station and head for home.
ems spends all night on my laptop. what is she doing? It transpires that she is preparing a heart warming manifesto to be allowed a pet rabbit.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Feb 18th

Up early for a lesson at 8 with cheery J. I gaze out of the window and the frost has turned the landscape a glorious frosty white. Jumping on the scales, I discover one benefit of two days' illness as they cheer me up with 13st 8lbs.
It's a good trip over to Chinnor and J does really well. I drop him at work and head home where the kids are up with their heads in screens. Pascale pops in to pick up MA, and then I have to get over to Thame for T and his test.
T is the best driver I have ever taken to the test centre, and by a distance. M was good, but T is better. He is confident too, and should have no problems whatever. We arrive at the test centre, and I wave him on his way. Three others go out on test with him.
I meet R from the association and go to the cafe to get a coffee. Also meet K for the first time. Seems a nice enough chap.
The candidates return. R's first, racing into the car park like a Formula One car. Thumbs down there. Then Ks'. Again hurtling into the car park. No joy either. T arrives and sweeps in majestically, bringing the car to a gentle halt. Perfect. He looks relaxed, and composed. Well done that man!
But no, a minute later, and F is beckoning me to the car. What can have gone wrong. F was complimentary. 4 minor mistakes, easily avoidable, which could have given him a perfect drive. But alas, one momentary misjudgment causes another car to slow down, and that is that.
He is gutted, but takes it in his stride. He is off to the US in a fortnight and hopes to get another test before he heads off, though at present I am having trouble finding a suitable date.
A new case in the evening, reccommended by the strange R of a few weeks back, but this guy is very different. A real nice guy.
At home in the evening watch Panorama, investigating the environmental impact of the bottled water racket. Claridge's have a water menu with bottles of the stuff going for up to £19 a hit. Apparently it takes 7 litres of water to make one plastic bottle to put one litre of water in.
Ever conscious of the environment, Panorama's intrepid reporter manages to choose Fiji as the perfect destination to travel to in order to demonstrate the problem and duly travels half way round the world with a film crew to prove the point.

Feb 17th

Woke up immediately feeling more in touch with my surroundings. My loving wife brought down toast and grapes and they went down a treat. Still feeling a little hot and sweaty, but no pain in the joints or the head. Thought about getting a foot out of the pit, but felt the shivers and retreated beneath the duvet once more. Was well able today to reach for the zapper, and flute around the channels. Missed Andrew Marr, if indeed he was on, and settled on an old favourite, who I have neglected for far too long, in the name of Lt Columbo. I used to watch his every adventure avidly, then tired of him and cast him aside. After a single episode, in which he did for Patrick Macgoohan (one of four times in all) I was back in love with the crumpled sleuth. Strange that Danger Man was back on the screen for the second consecutive prog, he having been the judge in last night's offering. So smitten anew with the Lieutenant was I, that on finishing the episode and noticing that the Hallmark Channel featured another episode almost immediately, I paid my first ever visit there. Now an ageing film star faced the wiles of the dog the coat and the car, and unusually escaped his hand on her collar, as well as enticing him into a tuxedo, and almost teasing out Mrs C for us to seee at last. This was sickness at it's very best, and when Hallmark follwed up "Columbo" with "Columbo" I couldn't have been happier. The great Maldini (Martini, Bellini, I can't remember, but what the hell, some supposed Italian conjuror) can't have felt as pleased with the bumbling arrival which inevitably led him to the waiting police cars. Six hours passed in no time.
Taking advantage of my illness, Kosovo decided to declare independence, apparently without too many Serbs loading up the wagon trains or turning late in life to arson. Chance of a good pogrom missed there, but watch this space.
If there had been more Columbo I'd have watched it, but in his absence I settled for the 2nd half of Preston v Pompey. A cracking half, dominated by PNE but snatched away from them at the death with a 90th minute own goal.
Another doze, then time to pull myself together and grumble around the house for a while. Eschewed Sunday dinner whilst everyone else tucked in, then watched the "Panic Room" with H, Emsy & Marie Anne, E & Ma staying awake to the end. The film had it's moments, but never really lived up to it's billing. Bed at midnight to be fit for the day to come.

Feb 17th

The lost Saturday
Had not felt at all good when I arrived home on Friday night, and as soon as I awoke on Saturday I knew I wasn’t any better, in fact was a lot worse. I was aching all over, hot and cold and feeling dead queezy. I managed to send a text to A, who I had a lesson booked with, and that took about all of my effort.
I was then seized with something approaching paralysis for the best part of 18 hours, not sure of time passing by, flitting in and out of sleep. I was desperately thirsty for the whole day, and had brought down a pint of water on Friday. I knew it was only about a foot away from me, but simply couldn’t summon the strength to reach for it. Texts kept arriving on my phone, and I couldn’t move to get them. The Wanderers were in action v Rotherham, but to reach the zapper and turn on the tele was beyond me.
Dan came down about 10pm and my body was getting itself together and I sat up for a glass of milk. With this, my strength came heading back to me, and about 11 I switched on the tele. I watched a bit of football, and then a film, whose title I don’t remember, but which reminded me of a similar affair called "Mississippi Burning" Good film, asked several questions, foremost of which was how does that country cotrol the rest of the world when it is so totally fucked up.
That was enough activity, turn it off and into that weird half sleep that a fever takes you to.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Feb 15th

Get Dan out early for school, and then a single broken down car causes havoc and a fifteen minute delay which scuppers the plan again. I feel so sorry for him late again. He deserves so much better.
Pick up cheery J from Walter's Ash and pass a good couple of hours with him. He is progressing nicely, but has a tendency to analyse and worry about everything.
Then it's S for his test, but when he kerbed the car on Saturday he cut the tyre wall. It's only small but I don't want to risk it being refused on test so I go round to the DT centre for advice. N says she'd take it out but she couldn't speak for the others, so I decide to change the wheel.
I take S back home and H makes him tea while I sort it, then I take him round for his test. He is pretty relaxed about it. He gets F, and shows him his licence. The AA instructor says to me that he had endorsements all over his licence. I am a bit puzzled as he told me he had never driven.
He stalls on his way out of the car park, and then agaion on his return. I fear the worst.
Sure enough he fails, but it was no disaster.
I question him about his licence. He fesses that he drove a car for a friend when he was 17 and crashed it!!!
Later he volunteers that his friend then reversed the car and crashed it into a third car. Then they did the oh so tried and tested never let you down ring the old Bill and report the car stolen trick. And of course ended up with perverting the course of justice to add to drunk driving. Ah! what it's like to be 17. I warm to him for confessing this. Je is no hoodlum, and I reckon if we hadn't lost the time we did he would have passed his test.
Over to Maidenhead and SP. I don't know the area and the routes I choose are not the best, too cramped and narrow. I take her somewhere more spacious and busier and she does much better.
I am starting to feel rough. I have caught a cough from S and am not the best. Return home and S and Emsy both have friends back. Emsy's frieends get moody, and go home. Poor E she so loves having friends home it was a great dissapointment.

Feb 14th

Valentine's Day at 13st10, and of course the morning sofa progs on TV have little else to fill their time with. I do my traditional thing. Sweet fuck all! What a bastard! Couldn't I for once just get of my high horse and surprise her? I doubt it!!!
T's last lesson. He drives impeccably, and we talk about his band practice and his forthcoming trip to California. He mentions his Dad says it's possible to change gear without using the clutch and I show him how. Clever.
Have a five hour marathon with S and i get pretty confident about his chances. Again though he gets tired and starts making stupid mistakes. It brings it home to me how tiring it is. I am knackered too. I send him home for half an hour to recuperate, and then let hom go for a gentle drive in the country.
In the evening I am ordered to HG school to attend a dance and gym evening. It's all very well intentioned, and a motley group of shapes and sizes do their very nest to put on a co ordinated show. As alwasy though, one or two real talents serve only to highlight the mediocrity of the rest. But the enjoyment can't be denied and well done to them for that.
Surprisingly SW was there which was a relief. I also spoke to Tuna afterwards. She always seems slightly dissaproving of me, but she does sometimes have a sharp turn of wit.
H takes the kids home and shoves bucketfuls of KFC into them, then meets me in Wetherspoons for plaice and chips, " meals and drinks for under a tenner. It's a reliable standby. Miss QT though, which is a shame as I like to throw things at the self righteous Melanie Phillips with her "don't say I didn't warn you" rants from start to finish

Feb 13th

A mega seeion with S. He has 8 hours booked in. It was due to be 6 but added a couple as he had had to blow out on Monday. Had to push him hard, and he responded pretty well, though all was not well as his little lad had had an operation the day before and consequently S had hardly slept. Considering this S did really well, but called things off at about 5. I still think he has a chance . Will keep fingers crossed for him.
Finishing early, I went to pick up Emsy and take her to swimming. The plan was to take her to Handy Cross and meet H there as Emsy had again forgotten her swimming kit. We got there on time but Heather didn't arrive until the lesson was nearly over. Ems was both cross and upset and another row between Me and H threatened. I was quite ready to rake over the embers of Stanstead. H though took off her shoes and traipsed round the swimming pool in her socks, explained the situation and got emsy boked into the next lesson. I had to admire her for that.
Bought a tasty looking trout with soft cheese and pesto from Asda, wrapped in pancetta. It looked delicious.
Got home and S had a guest, a very learned lad who hhad apparently travelled up from London to help her with her homework. He was ok, but found him a bit of a know all. Cooked the trout. Entirely forgettable.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Feb 12th

The weather is wonderful again. Ice to be scraped from the cars, but the sun is promised from dusk to dawn. It's a drive over to Thame to collect T, his penultimate lesson before his test, which he should pass without a problem. I shall miss him actually, he has been a very easy guy to teach. He is quiet and uses words sparingly, but seldom wastes them. He is a very good driver, but strangely today commits three faux pas which would fail him his test. I am sure these will prove to be anomalies, but it goes to show that there is no such thing as a cert.
After T, it's S in Aylesbury. I drive him along the dual carriageway to Hemel. He's generally ok with this, but the car weaves continually towards the middle of the road, and nothing I do or say can prevent it. Apart from this he drives reasonably well, but never suggests anything more than a basic competence. I have to confess to being at a bit of a loss with S.
Straight from Aylesbury to Wycombe, and S. We go to Chinnor to practice crossroads and he does really well. We return to Wycombe and I let him drive through the town centre in the rush hour traffic. At one point we see people pouring water over an old fashioned mini. Then I notice smoke coming through a hole in the bonnet and ten seconds later a fire engine pulls up!
Home to Dan as usual hunched over some imaginary battle in some imaginary world.
H is out with Sophie with regard to a World Challenge to Nepal. S has to raise £3500 to go on a working holiday to the Himalayan foothills. Me and Emsy watch two episodes of Thunderbirds. The Thomson Tower fire/ collapse....was Anderson being prescient?
Kip isn't seen until late in the evening, having been missing this morning. this after returning last night looking as if he'd been 15 rounds with Mike Tyson. Anyway, he duly appears, blissfully unaware of the state of his face, and is in and out again for the rest of the evening.
I watch a weak episode of Python, and an item on the news about a French guy who is building cars which run on compressed air.
Surely if they become too popular we'd compress all the air form the atmosphere, stick it all into bottles and have sod all left to breathe?

Feb 11th

There are many views on global warming. The basic attitudes are that it is not happening, so carry on as before and don't worry too much about the scaremongers. At the other end of the scale are the beards and wooly jumpers who predict catasrophe just around the corner, but reckon if we all start eating lentils and persuading our cars to quietly biodegrade, we might still be in time to save the planet. The most popuar view is yes, we have probably fucked it all up, but no, bollocks I am not stopping using my car, motorbike, lawnmower, dishwasher, washing machine, fridge, freezer, fridge freezer, 800"plasma screen tv, laptop, pc, mobile phone which I change every three months, dvd player, ipod, ypod, whatever letter comes next pod, cos even if I did the Chinese are knocking out steel smelting works quicker than sweet and sour pork balls.

There is of course not a gouvernment on earth which would have the balls to do the necessary and tell us to stop using our cars, ration electricity to 2 hours a day and prevent us from ever travelling further than the next village along the road. And thank fuck for that. We will of course all do what we've always done, ie as near to sweet fuck all as is possible. maybe seperating the treeloads of cardboard wrapping from the plastic wrapped water containers as we fling them away, their only purpose having been to show us a picture of the microwave meal, that we could have seen anyway if the bloody wrapping hadn't been covering it in the first place.

And when the shit hits the fan and the Thames comes lapping at the foothills of the Chilterns we'll find some way of dealing with it, happy that can we point the finger of blame at the government which we wouldn't have ever let do anything to stop the disaster happening in the first place.

And this morning I couldn't give a tuppeny toss, because it's one of those days when if global warming is working, then we all say, bring it on!

It certainly isn't warm. There's a thick frost tucked into the long grass where the sun doesn't reach and the morning sun is a blazing pastiche of it's infernal summer cousin. S's pullout, together with the weather, leaves absolutely no wriggle room from a morning walk. And within two minutes of setting out I am very glad of it.
My toes are tingling, and my hands brittle with the cold as I set out from behind GK school. Following the path away from the road I hear the percussive rat a tat of a woodpecker up high in the trees. I stop for a while and try to get a sighting, but without joy. Heading downhill the mud is serrated and frozen as the sun has yet to creeep over the neighbouring trees. I skid down the slope, feet sideways and hands outwards to keep my balance, taking care not to grab the barbed wire in panic.
The path leads out onto Boss Lane, and the lovely old houses that lead on to this wonderfully secluded location. Over the main road, behind the village Hall at Hughenden, and out onto open fields, looking so wonderful in their frosty winter coating. I notice today for the first time that the river to one side gives onto a deep pond, half hidden by the trees, where a brace of mallards do nothing but give off an air of total contentment with their lot.
In the distance come a woman and a dog. Strangely I recognise the dog first, and from it deduce the owner. It's Hannah Blowing, whose grumpy husband runs the Spar shop. She was part of the midwifery team which delivered little Emsy. She says a friendly hello, but neither of us are in the mood to brake our stride.
Over the fields, up to the church which looks out steadfastly on the grazing sheep which mock the cold and tear at the mossy grass.
Almost at the top of the hill I spy the woman I had chatted to a week or so before, along with her friendly scruffy dog. She was pleasant enough and we had shared the woods for 15 minutes, but today I really don't want to talk. I sense that she has seen and recognised me and is prepared to renew our acquaintance. So I pull my phone from my pocket and pretend to receive a call. I wait for five minutes until she has disappeared deep into the woods, and then continue on my way. And I feel rather cheap for having done it.
Through the woods at Downley, over the common and the sun is starting to melt the frost, and the steam shimmers above the grassland. I am warming too, the effort sending warmth to all my extremities, and a satisfying skin of sweat lies across my forehead.
Past the de Spencer Arms. How welcoming does the English country pub look compared with those miserable street bars in Marrakech? The winter sun, meanwhile is starting almost to rival it's African counterpart, though it doesn't stay so warm if I stop for too long.
I trudge through the mud along behind the houses in Naphill, and then head along the path and over the road, slipping and sliding through the pasture, and then onto the big wide field leading to the woods. I trace my route into the trees, but this is the bit I can never get right, and have to go off piste to get myself back on track. I stop on a stile and sit for five minutes in the wonderful sunshine, and wonder how this scene would have looked a hundred, two hundred years ago. I try to remove everything modern, and implant a horse drawn carriage onto a dusty track. There's not much to change. For the first time in years and years, I'd like to smoke. Just to sit and enjoy a ciggie, or maybe even a pipe as I gaze over this wonderful unchanging countryside.
Up a steep slope, then diagonally over a fallow field towards the Harrow. The pub is closed, and I wonder if I'd be tempted inside for a warm drink if it were otherwise.
Now for the big challenge. The steps which lead up the back of Cryer's Hill. At least 250 footsteps, and as many as 500 until the uphill climb finally relents. Near the top I hear a rustling and turn to see a muntjack no more than 30 yards away. We stare at eacher other for five or ten seconds. He's not a pretty fellow, his striped face giving him a mean expression that elicites little of the usual sympathy a deer can rely on. He eyes me with annoyance, then decides he's seen enough and moves off at his own pace.
Up to Piper's school, the girls are at playtime, and a wave of regret passes over me that I never did enough to offer our kids the opportunity of a paid for education.
S calls me. There was some vague plan that he might get away for the afternoon. He won't. It's hard to say I am not pleased. A day's pay for no work can never really seem a bad deal, and all the better on a day like this.
I get back into the car, pay my cheques into the bank and head for home.
After such a good start to the day, positive plans pass through my head. Start decorating the sitting room, fill in the holes in the ceiling. Alas, I succumb to the need to sleep (last night had been intermittent) and the lure of the internet dommes. Why do I do it? Where does it get me? How much of my bloody life have I wasted in such transient titillation?
Sophes gets home and snaps me out of it, and then it's up to collect little Emsy and hear about her day. Bless her, she had gone to school armed with H's hockey stick, but turned out to be the only one, and hockey wasn't on the menu.
Sophie is out to dinner again, this time at Pizza Hut. I go for the usual Monday beer and curry and she meets me in the Curry Centre. Must start to take the diet more seriously again, the weight is stuck between 13/10 at the very best, and 13/12, sometimes 13/13.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Feb 10th

Up reasonably early for S. Get to him about 10:30 and make some progress in the sunshine, but I still think with tomorrow abandoned we are leaving ourselves too much work to do. He does well, but not exceptionally so. The problem is that we will have to decide by Tuesday whether to go for his test or not, and we'll only have 3 more hours between now and then.
When I get home great things are happening. The £5 IKEA sofa has been destroyed and awaits it's transport to High Heavens. Less happily, the old Victorian sideboard, which has done nothing to offend anyone in all it's time on the planet, served Monty Armes for who knows, fifty years, was today condemmed, and destroyed in the blink of an eye, with a bit too much glee by Dan, Emsy, and Max from next door. It was a wonderfully made piece of furniture. not pretty in any way, but had a worthy air to it, and deserved better than this. I am glad I was not their when sentence was passed.
I have to confess with all the activity going on around me, I do not cover myself in glory, slumping down on the couch and watching a typically dull England rugby team struggle to overcome Italy, an undeserved victory.
I finally rise and cook roast. Two joints; lamb, which I may at last be coming round to, and the traditional chicken. Excellent. No sherry available so made a large pastis which went to places sherry never gets to.
After the traditional row over who is going to clear it all up it's back to gawping at the telly. When I awake everyone else has gone and I lurch unsteadily downstairs. Another weekend in my life gone by with very little achieved.
A call from Malcolm cheers me up. I had missed the fact that on their commemoration of Munich, the scumbags were beaten at home by Man City. priceless!

Feb 9th

Saturday, but there is work to do. S has booked an intensive course culminating in a test on Friday. Half way through today's lesson he drops the bombshell that he can't do Monday, thus cutting a fifth of the available hours from his course. His girlfriend had told me he could drive. On closer questioning, this experience involved driving his dad's car once round a field, eight years ago! Splendid. Bye bye my pass rate for 2008! He's not actually too bad, but I need to push him and he is a bit scary at times,
Spend the afternoon lazing around watching the rugby. France are marvellously French, being outplayed by Ireland, but breaking away three times to score fabulous tries, and then in the second half letting the Irish get to within 3 points of them, having led by 20. Exciting stuff.
The Wanderers, having beaten Mansfield away 4-0 a couple of weeks back, conspire to lose to them at home. ANOTHER 90th minute goal!
There are thoughts of venturing out into town to one of it's dingy hostelries, but as H settles onto the sofa there is shortly the rasping noise so familiar to us alll which tells us that further movement will be at a premium. Anyway I have another lesson with S tomorrow, and I think I may be getting too old for all this going out mlarky.

Feb 8th

Friday is quickly here this week. Cheery John gets out onto the big roads. He shouldn't be too much trouble and he is very complimentary towards me, says he enjoys the lessons.
Then there is L, another test booked, and one lesson in between, I don't think there is a lot more to teach her, she just has to concerntrate for the full length of the test. Her next one could go either way, there really is no telling, but she is to good a driver to be on attempt number six.
The storm over Rowan the beard continues unabated, and in the aftermath of Super Tuesday, the Mormon decides he has wasted enough of his sacred cash and does the decent thing, leaving the warmongering chip man and some looney southern preacher man by the name of Huckleberry or something very similar.
Friday ends as Friday does, pub and curry, though this tike it's the other way round. Heath brings home a ruby for all the family. Not at all good. Am I finally going off curry? My waistline and wallet would both be delighted.
Sohpes needs collecting from the Crown in Penn. She is getting quite used to eating out, but is worried by her developing belly!! As if!

Feb 7th

Thursday already and a truncated week heading towards it's close. More of T. It's getting hard to find much more to teach him, he is really very good, and in theory coud even outdo M's effort.
In the afternoon it is SP in Maidenhead who is moving along nicely. Sometimes hard to keep the conversation going. I am not fond of long silences in the car, but the only time we seem to be able to converse is when there is instruction to be given.
The archbish of Canterbury has set the world alight by apparently suggesting that it will become necessary to integrate facets of Shariah law into UK legislation. I doubt that was what he was suggesting. he seems to exist on a fairly high spiritual plane, and a man who cannot get his thoughts across to his barber succesfully is unlikely to be able to get through to us thickos. Needless to say the papers evoke visions of public stonings in Potters Bar and ritual beheadings in Bethnal Green. It'd save the hassle of going back to Marrakech.

Feb 6th

Super Duper Tuesday has been and gone and it seems that one side of the arguments is all over. The oven chip man is going to be the Rep candidate, if his 71 year old ticker can stand up to the next 9 months. Naturally, as a Nam vet he is an accomplished warmonger, and presumably wants to pile more troops and cash in Iraq. However on a brigher note, most Republicans hate him for being too lib and just too goddamm un Jesusly. Always good to see a right wing rabble saddling themselves with someone they hate with a passion.
Over on the other side, Hil and Barak are neck and neck. No one is letting policy get in the way of personality, and the show looks set to run and run. Apparently Barak was once the guest of his brother in law at a stag night in, of all places, Wokingham, though sadly got wind of the stripper's arrival in time to dissapear. Shame.
I'm out with cheery J at 8:30, and then in the afternoon it's over to Amersham to pick up M. He is good and confident. I was only worried that he might get brittle, but no sign of it.
While he is out on test I walk up to cafe and bump into Sophie, who comes back with me and waits for him.
He's out with Nicky and I see him reaching for his documents. They are in the car for ages afterwards, and at one stage he puts his head in his hands and I wonder if I have got things wrong, so I wander over, but Nicky waves the pass cert at me. I wait another five minutes, and they emerge. Nicky says "Sorry about that, he was just singing your praises" Sweet. He only got 2 minors, the best result yet.
We drop S off home, then I take back M and we say our goodbyes, although he is keen to do pass plus, so who knows.
I rush back to pick Emsy up for her swimming lesson but the Chesham traffic has done for her. She goes in for a quick swim on her own and I get her her favourite jacket potato and cheese before heading back to the sofa and instant kip. Am I now too old for travelling?

Feb 5th

It's always disorientating to start a week on a Tuesday, and it generally takes me the whole of the week to get back to working out what day it is. I pick up T for another 3 hour lesson, he has about four more before his test and he should be fine. Then next it's over to long struggling S. Decide to give him a break from the town this week and take him out for some progressive driving. He is making progress, but it is woefully slow, and by the time we get back to town he's stalling the car again with gay abandon, something I thought we had fixed a couple of months ago.
After S it's who is on his last lesson before his test. When I first met him his driving worried me a bit but he has knuckled down really well and has his test tomorrow. If he does nothing silly he should fly through.
In the evening it's off to another exciting meeting at the WDDIA. Gorey presentation of Northern Ireland crash videos from Keith the fireman, and then more pointless waffle abou the YDE as if we all have an interest in it. Afterwards have a couple of beers in the Horseshoes with B & N.
When I get home the coverage of Super Duper Tuesday is starting, though it seems mercifully at the last minute the "duper" has been dropped and we are back on familiar territory. Unfortunately the effects of a day's work pile on top of far too much footslogging around Marrakech and the fight between eyelids and gravity is a no contest.

Feb 4th

No such luck. The wailing starts at some unGodly hour for such a Godly purpose, and I never get over them. I am up at 6;30, packing and showering and hoping Sofian has done his stuff. In keeping with the early hour, the breakfast arrives in installments. There is no bread, and I think he has ventured into town in search of some. The pancakes are flatter and crisper this morning, though lovely with the honey. We pay him for the taxi. Predictably he has no change and we tell him to hang onto about 4 euros which brings a wide smile to his face.
He rings the taxi and then direcsts us back to where we first met him. We wait for five minutes before our still smiling taxi driver arrives. I explain apologetically that we just didn’t have time for his city tour, but he feels sure we will next time Insallah.
The drive to the airport is swifter than on the way in, and wholly uneventful. Getting out is way easier than getting in, and at the airport I am even able to find a pastis for my dutch courage, albeit served in a plastic cup.
Onto Ryanair again, and it is a blissful flight home, looking out over the bleak empty African scenery. Spain is shrouded in cloud and we get the bumps over the bay of Bisacy, but Brittany is revealed under clear blue skies. I spot the suspension bridge at St Nazaire, then the town of Nantes. Soon we are passing along the Normandie peninsular, leaving France behind, and then seeing the perfect outline of the Isle of Wight. I lose my bearings for a while but take a pop on one town being Guildford,, and soon after comes the suggestion that this may have been correct as Heathrow comes into vew beneath. We head out into the country to the north of Luton, then swing back in, land safely and on time, but sadly are greeted with no fanfare.
Just over Portsmouth, the effects of the pastis and the on board beer are affecting my bladder. I make my way to the back of the plane, queue patiently for the bog, and just as my turn comes round the seat belt sign goes on and I am despatched to my seat. I squirm around for 25 minutes, and by the time we are all standing up waiting to alight I am desperate. It takes forever to get off the plane, and then there is a warren of corridors to negotiate. At every turn an arrow promising toilets taunts me, but they never arrive.
We get to the passport control, another queue, and I cannot wait for that. I turn left and head in the direction of the signs. Still they don't appear. Eventually I see the door and make a dash for it, wrestling at my flies as I run. I fling open the cubicle door, but I am not in time, and for the first time for as long as I can remember, I am in trouble. Iwrench out my tadger and point it in the direction of the pan, spraying it over the seat, and wetting further my trousers. Catastrophe!
I then hear voices. Peolpe heading towards the loos. Then a thought occurs. Where are the urinals?
The voices again. They are getting closer. In fact they have passed the door. And they are feminine. I look down at the pool of piss on the seat and floor, and emerge in time to confront them face to face. I mumble a shamefaced "sorry". And dive for the adjoining boys room. It is full. I hold my bag in front of my groin to cover my embarrassment.
A spoken fire alarm is now telling us to evacuate the area. The toilet empties and I dry myself down and change trousers, stuffing my wet things into my bag and hoping to God I am not stopped by customs.
We now have to get to Luton station, pick up H’s car and repeat our journey to Stanstead to collect mine. The journey is made in better spirits than last time, and in quick time. H drops me at the terminal as I need to get the bus back to the car park. She drives off and I have a quick look in the terminal. I notice it is 16:00 and that the Marseille flight has just closed. Hope everyone made it.
I am on the bus to the carpark when I remembered what had been bugging me. I had meant to get something from my bag before H let me off, but couldn’t for the life of me think what it was. And then it dawns. The car keys!!
I ring three times before she answers. She is all the way down the M11 and about to join the M25. How much more forgiving she is of my idiocy than I am of hers!
I have to get a car to take me back to catch another bus to get back to the terminal building. When finally it arrives, H is just in front. I buy a sandwich from Pret a Manger which we share, she heads off, and I am back to the car park once more.
I have to stop for a kip on the way home, but the journey is uneventful and soon I am back to H and the kids. Nice to see them all. We apologise for the paucity of their presents, but they don’t seem unduly perturbed.
We get a take away and eat around the table. Emma has had the runs and not been at school today Sophie has nobly decided to stay at home and care for her. It’s back to the grindstone! Super Douper Tuesday tomorrow.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Feb 3rd

The day starts earlier than we had wished or indeed anticipated. Now I know that it’s every Muslim’s sacred duty to pray fie times a day, but I had no inkling that Allah’s remit extended so deep into the early hours. I have no idea what time it is when I hear the first wail, amplified a thousand times through the minaret’s boom box, but it is soon joined by at least five others and seems to go on for ever and a day. I decide to take my chance on eternal damnation and go for an extra couple of hour kip, which I am just about to sink back into when the cacophony starts again. Does Allah have a self belief problem or something? Apparently there’s a dawn prayer followed by a sunrise prayer. I had never thought there was a difference between thee two, but I suppose now it is characterised by the length of time necessary to just be getting back to kip after the first one, when the seond comes along.
The second set of wails does for my kipping ambitions, and soon after I hear fotsteps and the sounds of Sofian, presumably tearing himself from his pious devotions and getting down to the important business of brekkie.
The meal turns out to be splendid. Freshly squeezed orange juice, a hard boiled egg, a loaf (little more than a roll) of the excellent, crispy, aereated and tasty local bread, a selection of jams and honey, a delicious bubbly crepe, which combines the delights of a pancake and an aero bar, and a full cafetiere of cafe to be mixed with a generous helping of warm milk. It keeps us going throughout the day.
There’s no real plan in mind. We consider the taxi driver’s offer of a guided tour, but decide against. Time is limited and we opt to explore on foot.
Heading out into the "Derb" we are greeted with more"bonjours" from the local urchin population, and then turn out into the main drag. It is five times as busy as last nght, which would not have seemed possible. The increase is due to the fact tat all, as opposed to a majority of the shops are now open. The first culture shock comes at the butche’s shop. Six wonderful white chicken afre clucking away in the window. I suddenly realise that they are in fact tied together by their feet. Suddenly a hand appears from the darkness and grabs hold of them. The individual, sentient life forms are stuck on a set of scales, where they suddenly become a single commodity. I wouldn’t like to be their life assurance salesman! On closer examination there are three or four other chicken bunches stuffed into tiny wooden crates. A slim western blonde scoots in front of me in her tight arsed combats, and points a sophisticated camera into the shop. The butcher reacts angrily to both she and me, motioning us away with his arms.
The street is absolutely chock a block with donkey carts pulling every conceivable human supply in their carts. The donkeys are the saddest, mangiest creatures imaginable, with the possible exception of their masters, who to a man are aged, wrinkled, dried out by the sun and bent double by the efforts of their lifetime’s labours.
One step down the social hierarchy from the donkey carters are those who use the same carts, but are without donkey. Their tiny frames hauling huge piles of the unlikeliest supplies hither and thither, all the time vyeing for space with their four legged rivals, and of course, the never ending stream of mopeds weaving between them all.
We stroll through the melee, each corner providing a new surprise, until eventually the great minaret comes into view. We do the touristy thing, take our photos from many angles, and consider a coffee at an elegant looking cafe which lies in the shadow of the tower.
Before we can sit though, we are drawn to the palm fringed gardens over the road, and spend a lazy hour exploring. They are immaculately set out, consisting princcipally of vast palms reaching 50 or 60 feet into the sky, and neat rows of orange treees, trimmed into symmetrical shapes, and lined up as neat as soldiers. The gardens are a real oasis after the manic street, and the locals here adopt a more relaxed approach, taking a gentle stroll in the winter sunshine, which is growing in strength by the minnute.
After the gardens we wander aimlessly and soon chance upon a bus terminus. There is no real building, and no real bus stops, but great crowds mill around expectantly, all seemingly making sense of the system. Here real black faces convince us that we truly are on the dark continent, although Arab is still the dominant influence.
We wander through gates and notice huge stalks nesting atop turrets and even mobile phone masts. Each gate takes us into a tighter set of streets, and we seem to become more and more conspicous. Certainly would be guides are aware of us, but our growing sense of annoyance allows us to adopt the thick skinned rudeness required to persuade them to seek easier pray. As we delve deeper and deeper into the maze their attentions become tiring. The sun is now starting to make us uncomfortble, dresssed as we are in sweaters and coats, and we’d like to sit down, ideally for a beer (not likely), or at least for a tea or coffee. The only hosteleries are the dingy, men only little barlets that appear at regular intervals, but which do nothing to invite us inside.
The roads become so narrow that we are pressing into others simply to move forward. I feel vulnerable dressed as I am and carrying a camcorder, though in fairness no one ever presents a threat.
Suddenly we realise we have company. A young lad has latched onto us, and has apparently become our friend. He is impervious to all rudeness, and deals with it all with a friendly smile. We hold back, but again, he is fitted with radar and has no intention of letting us out of his site. After a while we are getting to the stage that we want to get back to the hotel to offload excess clothing. We have no idea from here how we would get back, so I buckle, and ask Mohammed, for it is he!, to take us to the Koutouba mosque.
We are now his, and this turns out to have benefits, as from this moment we are not hassled by another soul. The etiquette seems to dictate that he is in fact not just our guide, but our protection from all other guides.
We want to get the Koutouba, but M wants as much of us as he can get, and takes us around the royal palace (in truth all we can see of it are the exterior walls, and a gate which we are strictly forbidden to photograph)
Mohammed jokes with the royal guards and armed to the teeth police around the palace, but lives in mortal fear of the tourist police, who will curtail his guiding immediately, and more besides it seems.
After an hour of his company, he has won us over. We come across a pleasant square, and an attractive cafe. We say we are stopping for coffee, and we invite him to frink with us. This though, is not possible, "a cause de la police" and he waits patiently, just out of our line of sight, but never far enough to loose us.
What should we pay him? Well. At the start of our adoption, he made it quite clear that he sought no monetary gain, and so I suppose we could stick to that. I question another couple. They say agree a rate beforehand, or you will be rooked, but at the end of the day, he can scarcely physically demand cash.
I form a plan. He can take us to the mosque where I will tell him we are going back to the hotel, by bye, au revoir. I’ll pay him 5 euros for the time he has spent with us, take it or leave it.
But first, we must, surprise, surprise, visit his brother’s shop! This turns out to be some kind of apothecaries store, the spices attractively displayed on the pavement outside in the vast drums I had seen many times in the guide books. There were spices and potions and pumice stones and fossils, all colourful, all sweet smelling, all endowed with mysterious healing powers, and all of it totally fucking useless to us. Even Heather said so, and she is a sucker for this crap! I cowardly leave her to the tour round the shop and hang around on the street corner, under the watchful eye of our guide. Eventually boredom sends me inside, and we say a thick skinned goodbye without parting with a penny. To our shame the shopkeepers are pleasant and courteous as we take our leave.
Mohammed gets us to the mosque. He has more things to show us, but again I am firm. I hand him the 5 euros
"Mais, c’est rien monsieur"
I am in no mood for a fight and offer him a further 10 dirhams, which to my amazement he accepts happily, and goes on his way. Within a minute another guide is on our case, and I begin to miss young Mohammed.
We stop at the hotel from last night and anjoy a beer in the shade of the sun. The sun loungers are filling up around the pool and the hotel looks welcoming indeed, as does the beautiful pool. The staff are impeccably poite, if a little too bellhoppish in their uniform for my taste. It has a very colonial feel to it. The beers in this place don’t come cheap by the way and are expensive even by western standards. Apparently until recently it used to be relatively easy to get a cheap beer in the cafes frequented by the local Morrocan’s, but with the onward march of Islamic zealotary this is no longer the case. I am starting to sound like a stereotypiocal brit abroad I know.
We make it back to the Alaka with no further alarms. Time is running out for us as the flight leaves early tomorrow and in discussion with Sofian he suggests a 7:30 getaway is advisable. In view of the problems we had getting into Morroco it is hard to disagree, so the taxi is ordered.
We read through the guide books and lounge outside on the sun terrace. The sun now is blissfully warm when directly in line. It would be a pleasnat english summer’s day. After a few hours of lazing and dozing the decision is made to visit the new town, built by the French at some stage in the last century.
As we walk the long boulevards, the place has a less manic, more cosmopolitan feel to it, as evidenced principally by the Golden arches of Macvomits. We walk for hours, too long in fact, and see not much in particular. Theree are some reasonable looking restaurants, though all attached to business style hotels, and all absurdly expensive for a third world location. The place is undergoing a building boom, but so much seems unfinished, including the cobbled pavements, which always end in an enormous, life threatening pothole, or a simple pile of rubble. Skips stand by the side of the road on almost every corner, and men, almost 100% men, gaze out from European style cafes which still don’t offer the tantalising promise of the forbidden booze.
We enter a wonderful half built domed affair only to be greeted by someone who introduces himself as "le gardien du theatre" At once he is taking us on a guided tour and far too late do we realise that he will expect recompense at the end of it. He shows us nothing and tells us nothing that we would not have seen for ourselves, but nonetheless the implication is on parting that he should be rewarded. 20 dirhams (excusez moi, c’est tout que j’aie") seems to please him sufficiently. Who knows if he really was the guardien?
We walk for miles past endless identical pink modern buildings, with just the occasional municipal effort to break the monotony. It is becoming irksome and we discuss the possibility of jumping into a "petit taxi" or even one of the horse drawn carriges to take us back to the medina. But we are only here a day, haven’t learned the system, only now have large notes, and are worried about getting fleeced, so we walk, and walk and walk.
As the legs are about to succumb we turn a corner, and see the Koutouba mosque shining bright yellow light into the late evening, as impressive in the distance as from nearby. It’s a bloody way off, but at least we have something to set our sights on.
We trudge along a wide boulevard with a central walkway. It is impressive in scale, but there is a monotony to the arrangements of palms and topiaried bushes. People are out for an evening walk. Occasionally there a mixed groups of kids in western dress, but by and large they are segregated after 11 or 12. It all seems very joyless, though we detect the occasional chuckle from the family groups. It just all seems too well ordered and pre ordained to approach anything ressembling fun.
We are seriously tired now and trudge languidly towards the minaret. For a while it never seems to get closer, but after another half hour we spy the walls of the Medina. Even now we are thwarted. The entance gate leads only to a casino, and although inside now, we are diverted away from the mosque, and round a ring road. A million scooters blast round leaving the air a heavy soup of two stroke fumes. It is a vile experience. We totter atop an absurdly high kerb breathing in lunggfuls of the noxious mixture. H covers her face with her scarf. Very Morrocan!
After an eternity we are back to the mosque and in need of a drink. We look for somewhere else. We had discovered the "Narwama", ostensibly a Thai restaurant cum bar, earlier in the day.
To gain access we peer throught the obligatory wooden door into total darkness. I fumble and feel a large heavy black curtain. I peel it backwards and poke my head around. All looks well and I barge through and am shortly greeted by a gorgeous, dark haired youngster in a crisp white blouse and tight black trousers.
The place is dark, of course, but on a grand style, and flickering candles invite our gaze into it’s mysterious corners. We are led to the usual not quite comfy assortment of sofa and pillows, and presented with an ostentatious drinks menu with prices to match.
The staff are formal, but not unfriendly, and the restaurant looks grand in scale and presentation. We have no idea as to where we would like to eat. A return to La Place is immediately ruled out, and we have really seen nothing much to invite us, and so we decide to eat here.
The menu is a sad mixture of Thai standards and the two Morrocan standbys, viz Couscous and Tagine. It is overpriced and offers none of the anticipation, of say, Chiang Mai in Oxford.
Heather decides to try the Tagine and I go for John Dory in sweet and sour sauce. We order a bouteille of da wine!!!
The food is insipid in the extreme. The fish is dry and flavourless, the sauce could be puchased in a tin in any UK supermarket, and in addition it is not especially warm. It is well enough served, though without much warmth, and the only consolation to be had is the impressive surroundings, again under winter temporary roof. The centrepiece is a spectacular blaze of colour based on a fountain fused with a fire feature.
We leave, writing the place off to experience and head for La Place. It is noticeably calmer than the night before. Obviously Saturday is the big night in Marrakech as with chez nous. We are looking for gifts for the kids, but in truth there is not a lot on offer. I buy a couple of silly hats for Dan, bargaining from 400 dirhams to 35, and probably still paying too much. Heather torments some poor guy from the jewelry souk and eventually comes away wih a couple of pieces of tat for the girls. And that’s it really, back to the hotel, tired, and whilst it was fun, I won’t be shedding a tear for Marrakech to my departure.
We get tidied up on our return, in readiness for tomorrow’s early off, and hit the pillows, newly adorned with rose petals, hoping to sleep throught the first of tomorrows rallying calls for Allah.

Feb 2nd

It’s as early a start as I really want to get involved with. The cuckoo sounds at 4:45, and I am surprisingly lively by 5. Creeping quietly round the house, grabbing a bit of breakfast, I leave a few idiot jokes for the parents, and then sneak out of the front door. I am terrified of leaving anything behind as I would have to wake the house at 5am, as I did last time I was here.
The car is covered in ice, but it soon clears. The radio talks of snow storms further north, of ships floundering near the Scilies, yet here, though cold, things seem fine. I am wary of ice on the roads, but by the time we get to the A1 things seem ok.
It’s a trouble free journey to Stanstead, and hey presto, we are there in bags of time. Through security in no time at all of course, had it been the same yesterday we should have been in Marseille by now.
I mention we should be breakfasting by the Vieux Port, and H takes this as the cue to buy me a very tasty pain aux raisins.
My usual double scotch for dutch courage pre flight and soon we are soaring above rural Essex. The skies are clear and the south coast appears on cue, followed by the sandy start to France. We loose track of where we are, but kind of keep track by judging time. When the seat belt sign goes on and the aircraft starts to rock and roll, I wonder if it’s as a result of the Alps beneath, and my searchings from the window are rewarded by some snow capped peaks poking out from between the clouds.
The skies clear again as we approach Marseille. We fly out to sea a little over the refinery at Fos, and then swoop back over the town and into land. Ryanair play their new joke. A triumphant trumpet fanfare and the announcement that once again we have landed on time, as they do for 90% of their flights, the best record of any European airline. I joke to H that maybe she should work for them.
We wait for ever whilst two disinterested Police des Frontieres wait to check all the passports. When did they start doing this in France? Is it in response to their view of our capital as Londonistan, the terrorist haven?
We only have a couple of hours in Marseille and this eats into it. Luckily once through, we locate the bus to town quite quickly. Public transport in France is usually for nothing, but here they want a stinging 30 euros return for the 20 minutes into town.
The bus heads off bang on time, onto the wonderful french motorway network. From on high we glimpse the state of Marseille. I learned the other week that it is in fact in area the largest town in France, surpassing both Paris and Lyon, whilst lying third in terms of population. On this drive one can easily believe it.
It’s a thoroughly unlovely place, spreading at least the thirty or so kilometres to the airport and possibly beyond. It lies at the foot of what I suppose are the alpine foothills, bleached dry by near endless sunshine, and punctuated by sparse, prickly vegetation. When I look at the rocks I can’t help but think of the colour of dog turds drying in the sunshine.
All French towns sprawl, and all french towns, no matter how lovely their centres (and most of them put their British counterparts to shame) have allowed themselves to be surrounded by a universal shabbiness. Marseille has all this and much much worse.
Block upon block of featureless rectangles, in groups of five or six, punctuate the entire journey. They are all the same featureless colour as the dog turd rocks. Occasionally one tall block will rise alone in isolation, like a spare tooth in an old man’s mouth. Between all this is what were evidently once small provencal villages, with their tiled terracotta roofs, now wedged between these monstrosities for ever and lost as individual entities.
Occasionally a half destroyed building is left in a state of ruination for no apparent reason. In amongst all this are roads large and small, train lines barging just feet past the windows of the residents, dissapearing into tunnels under flats and houses. The blocks, HLMs as they are known in France are strewn from ground floor upwards with lines of washing on every balcony (every flat at least has a balcony), which only adds to the untidiness of the place.
Marseille of course has a reputation for menace and violence. Mention the place to any frenchman and he will whisper the words "le pegre" (the underworld). Passing through these mean banlieux, it is easy to understand that this reputation must be well deserved.
The road on which we are travelling has brought traffic all the way from Paris, from Lyon, over from Tolouse and Toulon and Montpellier, and as it nears the cebtre ville it sprouts tributaries to various arrondisements, proving this to be a real city and no provincial town.
Eventually we depart on one of these, ignoring the onward road to Nice and then to Rome, I suppose, and we are soon in front of the Gare St Charles.
It has changed out of all recognition from the last time we were here, now a vast glass building with the old vitorian structure which I remembered from two days after our wedding nowhere to be seen. That time we took a train to Cannes, and as it left the station I realise I no longer had my wallet with me. The wallet that contained around 4000 francs, mainly given to us in lieu of wedding gifts by our friends in Balnot following the marriage.
I remember Marseille from even further back. I must have just turned 20, maybe a few years more. I was in love, and the object of my affections had not long announced her engagement to her long term boyfriend, from whom I hoped against hope to win her. I never did, though came close. My best mate, Beany, had travelled to France to pick grapes, near Montpellier. I had the address of the farm and hoped to travel down to find him. I missed him by a day or two, and not knowing what to do I headed for the one place I had heard of..
I had been in France for two days, spoke scarcely a word of the language, and was too scared to ask for anything to eat. In Marseille I saw a restaurant menu. It seemed within my price range, and I saw the word "steak" I went in and pointed.
Apparently I had chosen a prix fixe menu. The first course was "salade verte", which in reality was a couple of lettuce leaves covered in oil. I imagined this to a be a side dish for the steak which was to come, rather than a starter in it’s on right, so pushed it to one side and waited for the steak.
The waiter kept passing me by throwing me curious glances, clearly curious as to when I was going to commence my starter. I returned his glances with my own, equally curious as to when the accompanying steak was about to arrive.
This continued for some twenty minutes, when eventually, he came to me, spoke sympathetically but totally unintelligably, and removed the "salade". Two minutes later the steak arrived. It was lovely, but I was puzzled for another five years or so until I returned to France and learned the language, and how the system worked.
Now I know, and, knowing time was at a premium, I knew if we wanted a taster of French lunchtime hospitality, we must head straight for the Vieux Port.We found the Metro quickly and descended into the bowels of France’s second (or third, or maybe first?? city)
In that previous encounter the metro had been new and shiny as a pin, but the intervening quarter of a century had not seen it wear well. It is dark and dingy, a tiny replica of the capital’s system, with very similar trains, but with harsh orange, plastic bucket seats. Almost every window had been scored in the manner so enjoyed by the modern subway vandal worldwide. There was just a general feel of shabbiness to it.
Lugging our heavy bags with us, it was a relief to see all upwards escalators in full working order, as is not always the case in Paris. As we neared the surface, the sharp wind carried the fresh and welcoming waft of the sea into the system, and we emerged into bright cold sunlight, to finally set eyes on the Vieux Port.
No time for endless browsing of menus. I spotted a blue canopy."La Mariniere." Despatching H to get some fric from an ATM, I checked the menu, approved it and within five minutes we were sat and waiting.
It really was cold outside, a strange sensation for a place I had alwasy associated with blistering heat. No one was eating on the terrace, but this little pace was a true haven from the windy cold. No more than 8 or ten tables were squeezed into a space perhaps the size of our own kitchen, and with our bulky luggage it was not easy to pick our way through to the only two places available, sharing a table with a young .couple who were nearing the end of their own meal.
My french now considerably better than all those years ago, I felt confident in explaining to the friendly patron that we were presse and were just after a plate of oysters and a seafood cocktail. Once upon a time I would have been embarrassed to eat in a french restaurant without going through the whole three course thing, but now I realise this is totally uneccesary, and the guy was niceness itself.
I chose the cheapest wine on the menu, and as he brought it to me he extolled it’s virtues without the merest hint of sniffiness or dissapointment. He pointed out that it was the winner of a "medaille d’or" It was excellent wine he assured me, "sans blague". And it was.
The meal was lovely too, albeit brief. There was no time for dessert, but an esspresso to finish made it feel like a real end to a real french lunch.
I explained to the guy about the missed flight, and he said that our misfortune was his good luck as we’d never have met without it. You couldn’t have asked for a better hour, and the episode typified what is so wonderful about France when everything goes comme il faut.
Back to the airport trouble free, buoyed up with a pastis and half a bottle of the medal winning cotes de provence inside me. It still couldn’t make the banlieux look welcoming. The graffitti plastered on every surface made a bad job all the worse. A huge, massive monolith loomed. The centre Hospitalier. It was truly stalinist in it’s conception, like something maybe from Caucescu’s Romania. Horrrible, but it wasn’t going to spoil that happy hour.
Back to the airport, ot rather the airport annexe. It seem the budget airlines have been held at arms length from the main body and shoved into a kind of pre fabricated annexe, whish has very little suggestion of permanence.
The same two flics from the police des frontieres were waiting to re examine our passports, though as far as I could tell there were no fellow travellers making this journey from our flight to London. I felt fairly smug about this, as I now knew that this cunning routing of Marrakech via Marseille (which not only gave us time in Marseille, but saved us the UK tax for flying outside of the EU) was my own little secret.
It’s also fun to see how the Ryanair flight crews change as we change localities. Still the Irish airline, but now we have a french pilot, and possibly a mixture of Spanish and Morrocan flight crew. It all adds to the spice.
Surprisingly there is not much to see from the window for much of the journey. Down there somewhere is Barcelona, and onto Gibraltar, but it is all hidden by cloud. I doze for a while, and then awake to see a coastline beneath which I guess is my first glimpse of the continent of Africa.It is pretty bare and featurelss, but not radically different from this angle.
We fly by Cassablanca and begin our descent, catching a wonderful view of the stark Atlas mountains. Circling for an eternity, we finally touch down. There is another Ryanair fanfare, which this time leaves most of the non anglophone passengers completely bemused.
Welcome to Africa. Welcome to Morrocco.
I am sure any seasoned traveller would sniff at the suggestion that this was really Africa, more an adjunct of Arabia. But I have checked the map, and it’s all joined on, and they can’t take that away from me.
About four planes have landed simaltaneously and vomitted their passenger loads into a tiny arrival hall. There are about 15 points for "controle des passeports", each with space for two men. Only half of them are open, and none of them have more than one guy on duty. The place is heaving with people, and it takes forever to edge towards them. Some of the controlleurs are in absurdly ornate uniforms for people whose only task in life is to look at a passport, check that the accompanying form has been filled in, stamp the thing, and wave through the bearer. However it takes forever. Moreover, we don’t notice until it is too late that our queue is in fact two queues tapering into one, thus doubling our wait. Our guy is not uniformed, but clad in a sinister dark overcoat. I feel sure he’d rather be in a dark basement somewhere in Tangiers pulling out fingernails.
After an hour and a half of this we trickle out into the arrivals hall, which is filled with drivers there to pick up their charges. It doesn’t take long to find our man, proudly displaying his A4 message. "Riad Alaka"
Into another, quite magnificent, Arabe/ornate hall, and then out to our "grand Taxi", some kind of Japanese people carrier. The streets are swarming with mopeds which swerve through the cars with gay abandon. The driver is a cheery chap who speeks reasonable french (better than mine at least) and tries to explain to us the sites as we head towards out destination. We reached the walled city (the Medina) and begin to circumnavigte it. It is iluminated and very impressive. In fact the whole place is ornate and apparently well ordered, with the exception of the mildly manic, though not lunatic traffic.
All of a sudden we plunge head first into a parking space and are at journey’s end. The driver offers his services as our guide tomorrow, hands me his business card, and then transfers charge of us to a newer, younger guardian, who has emerged from the shadows.
We follow into the Medina on foot and are amazed at what we see. The tiny, cobbled streets are crowded with hawkers. The mopeds now weave in and out between pedestrians, and added to the mix are donkey carts and the occasional small car or van which can battle it’s way through. Everything is either laid out on the street, or contained in tiny, cupboard sized businesses giving out immediately onto the street.
We follow our new man for no more than fifty yards of this, but already we know that this is unllike anything we have every experienced before.
We turn left into an alleyway no more than a metre wide. To reach the doors that lead off from it require two steps down to get to them, and then when they open, they descend even further into the bowels of the earth. The alley, perhaps passage decribes it better, is swarming with kids and uncared for cats. At the end of this we turn left and things narrow still more. I am becoming concerned, but have read enough about these riads to not be too worried yet.
Twenty yards along, a small brown sign protrudes from the wall. "Riad Alaka ex Mozart" A magnificent, ornate wooden door opens before us and we are ushered in.
What awaits us is wonderful. There is a pool of deep blue water, maybe three metres square. Around the edge are delicately latticed iron lanterns givining off a cool light and shimmering on the water. All around there is a tiled walkway, giving onto more dark wooden hand carved doors. Above us is a balcony where the symmetry is repeated at a higher level. We are offered the choice of two ornately decorated, lavishly cushioned rooms, one Arabic, the other European. We opt to assimilate and seat ourselves in a sea of cushions.
Our young host dissapears, and soon returns with a tray asilver teapot and two small glasses. He ostentatiously pours the drink and a minty aroma fills the room. He leaves us to contemplate our new home, and we sip the sticky sweet liquid. The room is bathed in a half light we will grow to know as standard. Everywhere are the arches of the orient, dark wooden tones and light barely seeping from the ornate lanterns which puntuate the entire building.
We have to come to terms with new ideas of indoors and out. When we were ushered through the door, we imagined ourselves to be "in", but on gazing upwards we see that in fact only a piece of sheeting seperates us from the sky, presumably in place temporarily for the Morrrocan winter. It is only when we enter the rooms around the courtyard, or on the upper levels, the bedrooms, that we can truly consider ourselves indoors.
We are shown to the room, past the pleasant breakfast room. It is small, as internet reviews had warned me it might be, but utterly satisfactory. Another four to five of the mysterious lanterns fill the "Requiem",as it is called, all rooms having names, with mysterious shadows. The bed is wide, hard yet comfrotable, and both it and all the surrounding surfaces have been decorated with red rose petals in anticipation of our arrival. A wall and a curtain seperates us from a toilet and shower.
Tired. We take half an hour to lie down prior to moving outside to investigate the anticipated mayhem outside. We try to formulate a plan, read up on restaurants we might try to find, but realise without a clue where we are , or where we will be going, we are unlikely to find what we seek.
Our host, who it transpires is called Sofian, gives us a map of the Medina, and directions to the place. Basically, we follow back to the main track and head left until we see the great minaret of the mosque of the Koutouba. From there we will find it, and the world will be our oyster.
We leave our Riad behind with some apprehension, wondering will we ever be able to find it again. But Sofian has given us a phone number, so we should be safe.
The passageway is teeming with kids screeching, playing football, games of chase, and terrifying the feral cats which abound. We pick our way through them, greeted with the occasional "bonjour" from the bolder amongst them.
We reach the main drag and turn left into a maelstrom of human and animal life.
Men are sat on the ground, clad in sinister cloaked hoods and long one pieced robes. These, it turns out are the djerbelas we have read of, and I believe they are the "uniform" of the berber tribesmen who have migrated from the mountains to the town. Some sit sellling their wares, often no more than a couple of cigarette packets atop a wooden crate. Cigarettes are on offered either in packets or individually. Women, sometimes veiled, sit by half a dozen loaves of bread, a basket full of reinforcements by their side. Others have no more than hald a dozen pieces of fruit from which to eke their living. Some simply sit, their hand forlornly outstreched in the hope of a handout, with nothing left to sell. Around them are the small cupboard size shopes. In these can hang carcasses of an entire sheep, with four or more full sheep’s heads proudly displayed on the counter, and hooves hanging from the ceiling. Behind the display a butcher may be manaically decimating a further corpse in furtherance of his trade.
Further along, chickens, from still living to various stages of butchery , hang or are piled highed on on top of the other. Then a high roofed shop, cigarettes stacked high to the roof on one side, toileteries on the other. Next, bizarrely comnes an internet cafe, it’s screens the huge monsters already outdated in the first world . A pile of microwave ovens, all years old totter precariously on the uneven cobbles, then recessed deeply into the already dark buildings comes the first moped repair shop. The smell of grease seeps into the street, and inside is a dark grimey mire of inner tubes and tyres, spare wheels,, dissassembled engines, rusty handlebars, wheel bearings, clutch parts, complete bikes which should have been retired twenty years ago, yet still somehow cling to life. Ancient Pedal cycles cling to the walls and hang from the ceilings, and deep in the corner a bent, gnarled man, his hands encased for ever with the grime of his trade, saws desperately, yet determininedly at some piece of engine, clutch, or exhaust which may just bring back to life some relic of a darker age.
The working mopeds whizz through the narrow alley at good speed. Often they are driven one handed, and their charges are adept at gliding them through the disorganised throng whilst texting on their mobile phones. Tiny, unnepealing cafes, peopled only by the male of the species are dotted everywhere. Their interiors are sullen, and the mood of the customers seemed to match, without the spice of alcohol to light the touch paper of excitmement and bonhomie. The eyes gaze out at us suspisioucly, from darkened, gnarled faces, often denuded of some or all teeth. As we grow accustomed, it is not comfortable to be white or european.
Some cook tiny meals on tiny stoves, the smoke wafting into the air wholly disproportionate to the frugal fare being prepared. Cats scurry everywhere, showing little trust in their human neighbours, but staying around long enough to scavenge in plastic bin bags. One senses no one here will be shopping for "Whiskas". One of the mysterious robed demons passes us by, puts a finger to one nostril, and with a careful air, blows half a nose full of snot onto the pavement. His companion compliments his skill by aiming a viscous gob in the same direction. There are people all around our feet, staring up at us, guys in cafes staring out at us, people walking past and staring through us. Now the crowds part, and an emaciated donkey comes into view, hauling a grimly determined driver atop a cart held together by rust and prayers, it’s sleek bald tyres glinting in the begrudging light of the street. The creature looks as though it has been eaten away by parasites. Here there is fur, elsewhere bare skin. It has a woeful, anorexic, air, yet it sticks to it’s task and guides it’s master through the rabble without forcing him to take up his whip
More shops, more cafes,more peddlars, more beggars. The road turns a corner, and to our left is a pink walled, ornate building, which apparently is the exterior of a royal palace in the midst of this mayhem.Tall, gand palms peer over the wall, mocking those outside. We turn again and are greeted with the sight of the town’s principal landmark, the magnificent minaret of the Katouba. mosque. Beautifully lit, the stone is whiter thanthe pink which oherwise dominates in these parts. The mosque is set in palm fringed gardens, but we are in the searchof the "placeJemma al Fna", supposedly the hub of the town.
According to the guide books, the mosque backs straight onto it, but we are now at the mosque and see nothing we recognise from the guidebooks.
For the first time, a local makes contact.
"You look square? I take, come come"
I ignore him
"Monsieur!! Monsieur, you come me, You look square . I take, Yes pleece, come come"
"You look eat Monsieur I take . Is very beautfiful"
"Non, non merci."
"Oui Monsieur, venez avec moi, I show, I take"
The books have warned about this. Unofficial guides who lead you aimlessly around the streets for hours, taking you from shop to shop where the owners will try to fleece you, with them on a commission.
I keep my head down, and looking down a dirty, grotty road full of more mean shops, I spy an oasis of grandeur.
This turns out to be the Hotel des Jardins du Palais, or something similar, a bleached white building in traditional arabic style. A group of westerners are being ushered throught an enormous decorative wooden door.
The security guard stops us, asks a question in rapid french which I don’t understand, and beckons us to wait a moment, along with some evidently well to do local teenage girls, modestly dressed and hair covered, yet full of conspiratorial smiles.
The doorman goes off on an errand, they wait for him to dissapear, then dart inside and beckon us to do likewise.
The door shuts out the chaos on the street and seals us into a different world. A world of calm and luxury, a world of comfy sofas and uniformed flunkies. Huge glass doors lead on to a sublime pool shimmering in the evening air, fringed with palms and sun loungers. It is the Riad Alaka magnified twenty times in size, and thirty times in luxury.
Are we aallowed in here? Is it private?
I meet a flunky
"Pour boire un coup s’il vous plait?"
He motions to one of the many rooms leading off from the poolside. Schmalzy piano music floats into the quiet of the night as I open the door.
The piano bar. We had read about it in the guide book where it was the reccommended start of the "bar crawl" it’s nice to sit down, but I am still perturbed that we have not found "La place", the hub of the town.
We have a pastis apiece, take photos of ourselves, and then of a couple of friendly girls who turn out to be from, and strong advocates of, the town of Lyon.
We ask where is "La Place", but the explanation is lost on me after about 5 turns.
Heading back out into the melee, the doorman gives simpler directions,
"Toute droite" he motions with his left arm
Through a few more grubby alleys lined with seedy cafes. As the square gets closer, the fleecers , clearly professionals, become emboldened. We need verbal fly swatters.
Eventully one of the roads leads us onto La Place, and it is indeed a sight to behold. Four minarets, the largest being the Katouba, stand guard over it’s morality, as we will soon discover. All are grand, well kept and impressive.
There are restsaurants in all four corners, with terraces three or four stories up to afford what must be a sprctaulcar view.
There are veiled women sesated on the floor, a piece of cardboard box their only furnishing. These are apparently the "story tellers" who, for a price of course, will regale the passer by with some kind of wisdom or tales of mystery and wonder. There are crowds gathered around dancers who girate to the distinctive trill of the arabic pipes and the incessant beat of the drums. I hold my camcorder above the crowd to catch a glimpse and within 5 seconds a dancer is heading my way demanding
"La monnaie monsieur"
We run. Past a collection of perhaps a dozen identical market stalls, each piled high with huge oranges, which are to be squeezex into juice. 5 dh petit, 10dh grand. Each stall identical, as are the entreaties of each vendor to spend on his produce. Fortunately they remain captive behind their juice makers and cannot physically manhandle us to their wares. However, a verbal assault is launched as we pass each one.
Along the other side of the square, a similar scene, but here the fare is not oranges, but vast piles of tiny snails. Theses are doing a brisk trade. Identical pricing structure to their fruity counterparts, big bowls or small, into which huge scoops of snails are piled, followed by some form of sauce. These are doing a brisk trade, to the extent that tehre is no need to accost us on passing.

The middle of the square is given over to perhaps a hundred individual stalls, each selling food, and each vyeing for the custom of every bypasser.
As we walk the aisles through the rows of bright, whitely lit tents surrounding the grills which billow plumes of steam and smoke dozens of feet into the air, frying meat and fish and sauages and chickens and sheep and heads and feet and tails and eyes and ears, we are accosted with cheap, garish menus, poorly laminated with dog eared edges.
"Come, monsieur, come"
"We’ve eatenn already!"
That clearly cuts no ice.
"Where did you eat?" We have no answer, we just plough on. But even a glance in the direction of someone’s stall has a white aproned maitre d’ on top of us.
"Beautiful fish, lovely you like couscous?"
We put our heads down and make for the far end.
Menus are thrust under our noses, our arms are grabbed. They try to persuade, beg or threaten. Anything but anything goes in the bid to get our brace of arses on their aluminium benches.
"I think you are from Ipswich?" says a voice
For sheer originality, this is the one that stops me in my tracks.
"Yes yes very lovely I love London"
The boy telling us this can be no more than 15, but he smiles winningly, and launches back to his spiel.
"Yes I love London. Hackernee, Mansfield and Basingwater. I know all of this"
"Where you are from?"
"Basingwater." couldn’t reist this
"Oh yes very beautiful. You come now eat, we talk."
"Well we’ve not decided what"
"Yes, no, lovely food , you look"
And we had to admit, he did have a point.
The shrimps sizzled crazily on the makeshift griddle, brochettes smoked and filled the nosstrils, now hungry for food.
Heather thought it might be better to go for a restaurant tonight and try this tomorrow, the logic being that if we were to get ill from eating here, it’s be better on the last day than the first.
We explain our reaasoning. his smile dissipates. He must have heard, "well come back tomorrow" a thousand times before.
"Tomorrow Inshallah" he bids us
We battle past more stalls, more entreaties, more demonstrations, until we eventually reach the orange sellers again. Ignoring their pleas (though attracted by a glass of freshly squeezed orange) we head past the rows of veiled women selling knitted headgear and out to the restaurants on the periphery.
Whilst browsing the menus, we her grave news.
A tall, wiry, grizzled haired young man, maybe in his late twenties, has sidled alongside us.
"Vous allez mangez?"
We ignore him.
We will check out the the six or seven resstaurants, make a decision and get some food. We move form one to other.
"You like drink da wine?"
We almost choose a restaurant just to get away from him.
"This restaurant, no da wine" he pronounces gravely
In truth this is not what I need to here, if indeed it is true. I could do with a drink with my dinner.
We check. No alchohol mentioned on the menu.
I point out another resstaurant.
"This restaurant no da wine"
He has got our attention. He points individually to each restsaurant on the square. This restaaurant, no da wine, my friend. This restaurant no da wine. Thees restaurant no da wine.
He moves his rearranged nose closer to mine in conspiratorial intimacy.
"You know Islam, my friend?
He now motions back to the square
"Here is Mosquee. Here is mosquee..... four times this is repeated."
"Islam say, where mosquee see restaurant....no da wine"
I can see a certain line of logique, and my heart sinks. I mean, I don’t have a drink problem, but if we are going to have a meal, I’d like a drop of da wine with it
"No da wine anywhere here I?" ask
He shakes his head sadly "No da wine, no da beer"
Because of the Mosque.
"Here is mosquee...... here is mosquee"
"Yes, yes"
"You want know where is da wine?"
"Go on, I’ll buy it......where is da wine?"
"Hotel Tajiz, here is da wine. I take you"
"Just give us directions"
"No, no you come, I show you. Hotle Tajiz...Hotel Tajiz is da wine"
He returns his pointing to the square
"This restaurant, no da wine, this restaurant...no"
"Yeah ok, well, maybe we’ll pop by your place tomorrow"
We walk off. He walks after us
We look at a menu He’s there.
"This restaurant, no da wine.. You know Islam my friend? Look Mosquee....no da wine. No da beer"
We wonder off in another direction. He follows us. He beckons us to follow him. More promising. Let him get ahead and loose him. He must have rear view mirrors fitted though. Every time we try to put distance between us and him, he is back with tales of da wine, da beer and Hotel Tajiz
For half an hour we try and shake him off but he is limpett like. He takes us into a Riad, where the management suggests we
"Come upstairs, just for look" We decline, and leg it into the street, but just cannot shake him off.
He knows every crooked street cigarette salesman we pass, and helps himself to ciggies several times. Every plot to shake him off fails, until eventually he brandishes his hand in triumph.
"Here is Hotel Tajiz. Here restaurant. Here da wine"
The place contains not a single living soul, and is decked out with village hall style chairs and tables covered in plastic cloths. I’d rather snog our guide than eat there. From a distance the manager has spotted our arrival and is bearing down on us like a leopard after his prey.
"No I am not goign in" I announce, at last showiing the resolve required to overcome our pathetic western embarrassment that gets us all into these situations in the first place.
I stomp off and tell our friend to piss off. He fumes. The manager fumes, but at last we are shot of him.
In the end we go back to our friend from Basingwater. The food there looks sizzlingly exciting.
He is thrilled to welcome us back. We sit down and pass a few pleasantaries with a couple of french women who have also been hauled in.
Our man returns with grave news.
"It is very sad. The england rugby team have lost before the wales."
He Can’t quite understand why I can’t give a fourpenny fuck, nor what H is talking anout when she tries to explain she is irish.
The service is friendly, but the food sadly uninspiring. The brochettes are edible, the chicken couscous is wholly uninspiring. It costs 200dh or 20 euros, so whilst cheap it is hardly giveaway.
An experience though.
The place is starting to close down as we wend our way home. The crowds are thinner, the hassle lesss determined. We are quite proud that we have got the orientation of the medina straight away and get home without a problem. There are kids everywher in the alley, and some of them throw a cheerful "bonjour" in our direction.
It’s been a long day, and bed is welcome.