It’s hot and sunny.
The old bag is delighted with herself.
A visit to the souk and hardly got lost at all, despite the fact that someone had bought my lilac chest of drawers’ landmark.
Managed to say F*** off charmingly to all attempted boarders and feel …almost a local.
It looks different every day, the souk that is. This time my route was paved with fabric and furniture, I’m sure they were selling shoes and bags here yesterday but no matter.
Found the market square and the cigarette kiosk.
Settle for a new cafe. Delicious fresh tomato salad and, if possible, even nicer bread than yesterday. Best of all, not cat in sight…all mine.
Sated… people watch.
The square is full of Medieval hooded monks. Green monks, aubergine monks, saffron monks, dark blue monks, terracotta monks and just your average run of the mill brown monks.
I’m sure Friar Tuck has brought out his entire army in retribution for Veronika’s “make photo”
Any minute now I expect Richard the Lionheart to appear with his crusaders, all on motorbikes, black smoke belching from their Harleys as they attack the square.
The monks will take position on the north side of the square, Richard and the Crusaders (was there a band called that?) the south, the James Dean, leather jacketed, Arab youths the West side, and Errol Flynn and his merry men will rain arrows down from the battlements as crazy eyed, Vanessa Redgrave cackles her oaths.
Enough. It’s too warm to write nonsense and time to tan.