I just don’t appreciate the email from Expedia welcoming me back from Casablanca.
First of all, I don’t want to be back from Casablanca. I want still to be rocking in a hammock licking honey from the desert off my fingers, while my host feeds me “tea and oranges” like Suzanne, even if the oranges are green and come only from the tree at the end of the garden instead of China. I want to be walking through Chellah at dusk as the storks float through the sky in their hundreds back to their nests that are perched on the tree tops like open hands. I’d want to be driving idly through Rabat having the embassies pointed out to me as though they were the homes of the Rich and Famous in Beverly Hills, and my attention drawn to the back of the Duty Free shop which is, ‘not the white one, but the yellow building next to it’ (should you be in any doubt). I wouldn’t even mind being lost for one and a half hours in the brutally anonymous suburbs of Casablanca, blind in the torrential rain while thunder rolls over the bonnet of the car and lightening cracks the sky open and you can’t hear yourself think for the water bouncing off the roof like angry anti-aircraft fire. So believe me, I really, really don’t need reminding that I’m back home in the dark on the No 7 bus, with winter the next destination.
If there’s anything worse than Spam, it's Spam masquerading as friendship. How sad do you think I am that I need a cheery welcome from a self-generating email programme?
Okay, pretty sad.
The first night back I met with Sarah’s lovely friend where I made the fatal mistake of deciding I would put on a bit of slap before leaving for the hotel. It's not as though I had a lot to live up to - I mean, hair brushed would be a start, but I thought I should try to make an impression.
‘Hotel? That’s handy,’ said someone in a far corner of the room who I couldn’t quite reach with my haughty stare.
‘Hotel bar,’ I added.
‘As I said, handy…’ she said.
‘It’s a drink, not a date,’ I said. 'I need a mirror,' I added, as Ilona offered hers, 'but only if you don't crack it with that face. Give me a smile, it's only a drink you're going out for, not a hanging.'
This, she assures me, is just her loving Russian sense of humour, and yes, I felt loved, so loved in fact that the perfume I was applying spilled in a shape roughly the size of Bulgaria across my jeans (so what’s wrong with that, you wear perfume for drinks don’t you?) and…
‘Phwoaaaaaaaaar,’ came a collective moan across the office.
‘Bloody hell, what’s that?’ asked one.
‘Joy.’
‘Well you certainly do smell of it.’
‘It’s better than desperation, middle age and disappointment, isn’t it?’
‘The top notes, maybe,’ said Jo doubtfully.
‘Erm yes, it is a little strong,’ said lovely friend when I apologized for my somewhat overwhelming fragrant self, later in the bar.
I kept my coat across my knees all night trying to stifle the scent but to no avail. I can only think that he’s not a big fan of women who come up smelling of roses as he was pressed into the back of his chair like a man going round Brands Hatch, but with a great deal more white-knuckled terror.
There seems to be no end to the ways in which one can fail to impress.
Where's a slavishly fond chihuahua when you need it?
I mean, it kisses you, doesn't mind spending the night, cries when you leave it behind and is madly in love with your ankles? What's not to like?
