Marrakech

Marra, marshmallow: something soft, pink and sticky that you can sink into. Kech, a guttural and unknown sound with a kick: the hiss of a snake with a sting in its tail. The first two syllables roll around in an mmm of pleasurable dissipation, the last zaps a charge of fright through to heighten the senses. Hippies lolling around on cushions in an opium haze know that if they get caught a long jail sentence awaits. Artists caressing the voluptuous bottoms of young boys, find that the fear of deportation for sex crimes adds a certain thrill to the otherwise mundane trade.
The air is ripe with the promise of illicit pleasures. It’s the place to go to fall to pieces glamorously, where William Burrows fled to after shooting his wife by mistake, where Sebastian Flyte went to kill himself with booze in the tragic end to Brideshead Revisited. A person can corrode elegantly here; doing yourself in with heroin under grey skies in Hull just isn’t the same as smoking yourself into oblivion with opium in the azure Moroccan firmament.
When I was younger, I used to dream of sitting on a balcony of some colonial period French villa, a typewriter and glass of chilled wine on the table before me, gazing out at a square below bursting with white light and shouts from street traders. I’m going at the end of this month.

Capital punishment

So that the landlady won't mistake me for a marshmallow stuck to her lovely carpet when she next visits I decided that a day out in London was in order. Now, as a result of this jaunt am beginning to think that life as a shut in definitely has its merits. Public relations in the city have broken down to such an extent that there are gangs employed to dump water on the pavements to keep people from sitting down outside the Sunday Up Market near Brick Lane. These sociopaths enjoy theirs jobs so much as to not think twice about soaking my friend’s coat without warning even though he’d stood up and was about to leave. Return to Brighton brittle and shivering at the hostility of the outside world.

Mock meat is murder

Vegetarians beware. No they haven’t slipped in real meat by mistake. Despite the fact that the ‘mock meat’ displayed on this can looked like it had been wrapped in cellophane and then left out in the sun, I decided to try this luridly packaged tin of fake pork. Thanks to being soaked in a thick sugary sauce, it seemed to taste fine at first. That was until I got tummy ache afterwards. My boyfriend, who has a cast iron stomach, then decided to warm the leftovers up later. Reheated the chunks of ‘meat’ took on the consistency of rubber, he could actually hear the pieces squeaking between his teeth as he tried to get the stuff down.

Purge and Binge

I think I’ve got things upside down. After throwing some very unsexy and uncomfortable poses in my yoga class this morning in an attempt to rid myself of my Buddha belly, I end up one hour later in an extravagant chocolatier’s café tucking into a slice of cake large enough to sink a fleet of Ocean Liners. This monstrosity was even too much for my boyfriend, a man notorious for possessing a full head of sweet teeth. While we scoffed our way through, passers by stared enviously in at us, making me wonder if the staff often had to wipe off saliva stains from the shop windows. This is my first Wednesday off work, (hard fought for) so I can get on with being a real journalist. So after this Bacchanalian feast I headed off to the library to do some research (read magazines) and, as the typescript went in and out of focus before my sleepy eyes, discovered that it’s actually possible to gouge out after a fix of chocolate cake.

Decline and Shawl

Lured by the promise of free booze, Beth and I went to an opening of a studio shop, earlier this week. Right at the furthermost tip of Kemp Town, the shop sold floaty pieces of ornate knitwear -a tied securely to this world by a hefty price tag (scarfs were £70 pound a pop). Fortified by a cheap glass of wine on the way, we entered into a room heaving, with expensive smelling slightly wrinkled cleavages. Red lips kissed air and sipped champagne. Posh middle aged women formed a scrum around the merchandise, whooping in delight at the bargains? A giant loom sat in the corner lending credibility to the cottage industry ambience.
Beth and I were torn between finding the proceedings ridiculous or slightly nauseating. It seemed a little sick that these people thought nothing of spending a couple of hundred quid on a scarf when other people struggle to meet the rent. But then decadence wouldn’t be any fun if there weren’t someone to lord it over. A couple of middle-aged gay men held court. They resembled an arrogant Roman Emperor and his exotic lackey. One had a large, noble head, which rested on a silver-grey silk cravat, the other’s was shaved and stamped with an oriental tattoo. Both stood erect with puffed up chests. They were clearly not there to buy for themselves, but their presence put the imperial seal of approval on the whole proceedings. As they passed us on their way outside one urgently grabbed the other and pulled him back to draw his attention to a display case full of woollen necklaces, shouting out “Oh Fuck Fab, look at these, they are just divine!”
Soon after Beth walked out into the freezing starry night and shouting out “Oh Fuck Fab”, whilst wending our drunken scarfless way home.

Say Ohmmmmm

My new yoga teacher looks about 65 but can wrap his legs behind his head and give out instructions without pausing for breath. Initially the instructions sound like musical gobbledygook; he has a strange mellifluous intonation, his tone rising and falling with a regularity that disregards the rhythm and intonation of the words spoken. Perhaps this sing song delivery was meant to be relaxing but it only exacerbated for me the sense ridiculousness that yoga sessions inevitably inspires. I always want to giggle when it comes time to join our hands in prayer and say ohm. The solemnity seems a little silly though I have to admit a session of yoga is preferable to the abject boredom of going to mass. It didn’t help of course that I’d forgotten to wash my brown tracksuit bottoms and had to wear my pink, Britney Spears, got them down the car boot sale horrors. This apparel drew looks of horror from the fashionable black clad, Celtic tattooed, rubber limbed set.

Personal Pruning

Yesterday was spent performing a kind of painful but necessary personal surgery on myself. As my parents are moving house I’ve been ordered to come back home and remove my tat. It was probably best that I was anethetised to the task by a mother of all hangovers caused by an excessive alcohol intake the night before. I blame my dad’s gin and tonics (so possibly the phrase father of all hangovers best fits). When it came down to choosing the select few items I could carry back with me on the train home, I am proud to say that no tears were shed (although I will admit to some anguished sighs as I consigned a pile of Tintin books to the Oxfam pile).
The books were bad enough but I consoled myself that the boy reporter hero of my youth could always be encountered again in some musty bookshop. What hurt most was having to divide up the sticky wads of old photographs. While my relationship with Tintin is timeless and will never change these photos were like tombstones, etching the irrevocable loss of times and friendships gone by. Should I keep them and continue to mourn, or should I move on and throw them away? I’ve always been wary of nostalgia, it’s a bitter sweet emotion which first intoxicates as you dream of the past, but then is inevitably followed by a nasty hangover as you become conscious of the contrast with the stark realities of now.
Just like roses need their dead stems cut off in order to grow, in order to stop the too sweet scent of our memories from poisoning and infecting our future the pruning away at parts of our past is necessary. But just how far do you have to go before you begin to find yourself chopping away at yourself? I returned to Brighton with the crushing burden of giant rucksack on my back and a huge weight off my chest. I can almost smell the scent of fresh rose petals in the air.