This is a true story. Every word of it is true, right down
the one eyed cleaning lady. The Palace is a small, ancient palace at the centre
of the Medina. Some parts of it is open to the public.
Dear King Mohammed VI,
I know its only 9am,
but I thought I'd better fess up, before someone else gets the blame for my undoings.
I have a hapless reputation for destroying things, but even
I would never have thought myself capable of desecrating a thousand year old
Islamic treasure - and that before I've even had breakfast!
Can I just say, in my defense, that none of this would have
happened, if you could just make a law against Smelly Toilets. I strongly
recommend Cillit Bang*, it even cleans off fake tan, so you know its good
stuff. I will supply you with the manufacturer's details at the end of this
letter, perhaps you can do some sort of royal deal. Your nation and their
heritage, would thank you.
It all started at the call to prayer, before dawn.
Oh, your majesty, let me just say, that I never fail to be
enchanted by the ancient, noble sound, drifting far across the valley on the
crisp morning air, sifting through my open window and waking me to such
serenity.
I rose as I do, every morning, intending to sneak quietly
out the door, out the courtyard, into the yard where I can have a lovely pee in
the grassy field, without waking my host's mother of undeterminable age, who
sleeps on the floor in the room with me.
What a honey of a person! If such a thing were possible, I
would adopt her and take her everywhere with me - I could carry her on my hip,
she is so tiny! And I could fill her every day with delights, so that she would
clap her hands, as she does, and smile a smile that beam from her face and
light up the world.
This morning, however, as soon as I swung my feet to the
floor - Rahman (that's her name) sat bolt upright and started babbling loudly
in Arabic. I was rooted to the spot in utter amazement. Such a mind! Stringing
together so many sentences in high Arabic, hardly awake, when it takes me days
to get to grips with single words!
She stopped abruptly and flopped back down again, and I
slowly lowered myself back on the bed, thinking that I would wait for her to
fall asleep again, lest I unleash such a torrent of sleep talking once again.
I held on to my pee by counting the holes in the mosquito
net.
By the time Rahman's breathing had quietened down, my host,
Larbi was up. And there was lost my opportunity for a pee!
You see, Your Royal highness, I would be unable to explain
to Larbi, a most gracious, kind and attentive host, why I find it necessary to
pee outside. If I told him that I can't use his toilet due to its unbearable
smell, he would be mortified and probably would summon a new toilet be built,
there and then, for my personal use.
I am sure you would understand my predicament!
There was nothing to do, but to hold on to my pee, until we
got into town. As luck would have it, no sooner had we reached the Taxi Tree (I
presume since its your kingdom, you know about the Taxi trees), than a taxi
showed up.
Now, I'm no newby, your majesty. I have immersed myself
fully in your culture, and I know all about the communal taxi's and I know that
they keep picking up passengers, until the taxi is full.
This taxi, was full. No really. It was full.
Four passengers on the back seat, and two more, squashed hip
to elbow on the front passenger seat. Plus driver, makes 7. In an ordinary
saloon car, designed for four passengers. Full.
However - it still skidded to a halt on the dirt. Larbi
sprung into action, flinging open the back door, man-handling me onto the laps
of the rear passengers and wedging me in, by slamming the door against my butt.
That made five on the back seat.
He sprinted round the car, all the time talking and greeting
the other passengers animatedly.
To my wild astonishment - got onto the lap of the driver!
That made two on the driver seat, two on the front passenger seat. Nine
passengers in total.
Your Royal Highness! Did you know that this kind of thing is
going on in your kingdom? I suppose you do - because none of the other
passengers seemed to mind at all, just continuing their conversation as if they
were on a double decker bus!
It took a while to get going, because Larbi had to control
the foot pedals - whilst the driver steered - and the passenger on the front
seat, changed gears. They soon got themselves co-ordinated and off we sped,
just another day at work, I suppose.
I do apologise for digressing slightly, but I feel its
important that you have all the facts, so as to find it in your heart to pardon
me, for my terrible crime.
By the time we got to Assilah, I was paralyzed with peeing
urge - and I dashed into the old Medina, in a hope to find a cafe open. To no
avail.
Did you know, your Majesty, that although the shops claim to
open at 9am. They actually only start dawdling open at around 10.30? Not that I
am complaining, or being a tittle tale - but I just want you to know that this
is what happens on the ground, so to speak.
I frantically started surveying corners and alleyways, where
I could relieve myself - when I saw that, although the doors were locked, one
of the ground floor windows to your Ancient Palace of Assilah was open.
No. I didn't climb
through the window. Because, just as I managed to perch my bum onto the window
sill, a cleaning lady from inside, all shawls and skirts, catapulted her broom
at me and glared at me with one eye. The other eye, I'm afraid to say, staring
blindly into nothingness.
A frightfull sight she was - but in such dire need was I,
that I decided to throw myself on her mercy.
I launched into the internationally recognised mime language
for: "I AM DESPERATE FOR A PEE!" Which, if you don't know, your
highness, involves crossing your eyes, screwing up your face, whilst crossing
your legs and hopping about furiously.
I had to add the final touch, of clutching my crotch with
both hands, before enlightenement dawned on her face and to my relief, she
showed instant sympathy. She quickly hussled to the door and let me in.
And I ask your pardon
for this small indiscretion of hers, your majesty, because it was a simple,
spontaneous act of kindness to someone in need.
We all but ran down an awe inspiring corridor, emblazoned
with the most dazzling tile work, down some equally decorative stairs and when
she pointed me to a door, I burst through it with unholy relief.
What an amazing surprise! In the beautifully decorated
cubicle stood a dazzling white toilet, beaming regally at me. I could hardly
believe it!
Your majesty - shame on you! No wonder the state of your
nation's toilets - you have no idea, do you! Relieving yourself as you do, in
such decadent, hygenic splendour, oblivious of the cess pits and squallor
everyone else uses.
Never mind though - I savoured every beautiful moment,
including unrolling unseemly amounts of toilet paper. And flushing twice. I
thought my blessings would overwhelm me, when I stepped outside and above the
gleaming marbled tiled sink, a soap dispenser - filled with soap! Glorious,
bright, luminescent blue, liquid soap!
Your Sublime Highness! At this point, I hang my head in
shame, for it is at this juncture, where my assinine clumsiness finally lead to
my downfall.
In my eagerness to wash my hands in frothy, liquid soap, I
must have pressed the wrong button - because the whole contraption came
crashing off the wall, spilling bright blue soap in a huge puddle across the
sink.
In mad panic, I scooped up as much of the soap as I could
back into the container, and perched it, precariously, into position. All the
time saying a desperate sorry for the next unsuspecting person, who tries to
use it.
But it was on the magnificent, ancient basin, laid in an
intricate mosaic of hand carved tiles, that the unspeakable happened: the white
tiles, were stained a bright, very harpic-esque blue and no amount of furious
rinsing, could cure it. (What DO you put in your soap, your Majesty!)
For a wild, panicked moment, I considered tipping the
remainder of the soap out, onto the basin, thinking it would at least be a
uniform stain and with some imagination, one could almost imagine that the
original master craftsmen, had planned the colour in their carefully laid
design. But at that instant, my one eyed benefactor, started banging her broom
against the door.
My time was up.
So there, Your Gracious Highness. That's how it happened.
I thought breaking my boyfriend dead mother's favourite,
irreplaceable bowl was as desperate as my life would get. Desecrating and
defacing an ancient royal Moroccan palace, has plummeted me into the abyss. And
all before breakfast.
A girl close to my heart.
I mean -- there is going wild, and there's going filthy -
and good girls know the difference.
Surely she is not really SCARED of rats. She simply prefers
not to KNOWINGLY fraternise with them.