After spending yesterday running around doing (and eating, and drinking) a thousand things, and then spending today doing much the same thing (although without the drinking this time) and discussing the wonderful world of immigration with no fewer than four taxi drivers (Irish-born taxi drivers are almost universally racist and think that Polish/Chinese/Nigerian people who only hang out with other Polish/Chinese/Nigerian people, eat Polish/Chinese/Nigerian food, go to Polish/Chinese/Nigerian places of worship and drink in Polish/Chinese/Nigerian pubs are both sinister and COMPLETELY DIFFERENT from Irish emigrant workers abroad who only hang out with other Irish, eat Irish food, go to Irish places of worship and drink in Irish pubs) and the strong and weak points of life in the Republic of Benin with another (who although from Benin, recommended Ghana).
And after all this, I find myself sitting on the couch, watching Midsomer Murders (yay!) after having had a bath and dinner (in that order, and dinner was Indian treats from Marks and Spencer) but with a rapidly developing head cold. Poor, poor me. I feel very sorry for myself indeed, in the way one does when one is slightly ill with something most certainly not lifethreatening in any way.
Oh well. I will do my best to survive and spend the next twenty-four hours tucked up with a hot drink (perhaps even Beechams?) and the three Georgette Heyer novels I got today in Hodges Figgis.
Oh so many parentheses. It is very odd how Marrakech fades into unreality so quickly whenever I leave it.
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