David and Jonathan sit by the pool. I have no idea that their names are David and Jonathan at this moment, we have yet to be introduced, but they are the most interesting couple currently toasting themselves by the pool.
David looks like Dirk Bogarde in ‘Death in Venice’, without the makeup, and Joanathan, some 20 years his junior has a kind, pinking, very English face with thinning hair that looks as though it should have a knotted handkerchief on top.
David shrilly demands that Jonathan apply sun lotion to the backs of his legs that he could perfectly easily apply himself, despite his frail demeanour. Jonathan acquiesces graciously and gives his withered shanks a playful tweak as he finishes the task. They are obviously still in love. I love a good romance.
There is an English family of the 2.2 ad agency perfection genre also roasting themselves by the pool. The boy is about eleven and bored to the point of pinching his princess of a sister at every unseen opportunity. The wife smiling in that, ‘God aren’t children awful?’ courting sympathy way. The husband, forgettable.
Sorry love, children are unspeakably awful (they shouldn’t be allowed out until they are at least well read and can hold their own in a good debate), and yours, I suspect, are neither well read nor capable of any kind of debate. They detest each other, have nothing in common and are well aware that the wifi only works in the lobby. You wouldn’t let them bring their electronic games, as you foolishly thought that Morocco would expand their minds. WRONG, that was hippies in the sixties not prepubescents in a city that can barely support survival let alone tourism. They loathe the food, even the croissants I saw you nick at breakfast, so don’t look to me for any kind of approval and please stop them splashing David and Jonathan.
Had it been me they were splashing I would have held both their heads under water until all ripples ceased, or I got arrested. I think David and Jonathan may well have turned the blindest of eyes, despite being far too polite to complain.
Finally the hideous, perfect family depart for a day’s surfing on the coast, I pray for a mini tsunami or at the very least a ‘grand’ taxi strike in Agadir.
Calm restored, I return to my book. Having spent the last few days reading ‘New York’ (The Novel) by Edward Rutherford, a great insight to that avaricious city and one I commend to ‘She who must be obeyed’, daughter number one, who currently resides there, followed by A Thousand Suns by Alec Scarrow, a rollicking boys own romp, I feel I have earned a day of indulgence with Jackie Collin’s ‘Toxic Bachelors’.
A cloud blots out the sun.
“Are you coming to lunch?”
Damn the sun’s gone in.
“Are you lunching?”
I look up.
“I’m Jonathan, this is my partner, David. We’re going to lunch. It’s quite good.”
Having had no intention of going to lunch, but now bursting with curiosity, I leap to my feet and say I will join them in a bit; one has to dress for lunch after all.
Ten minutes later, covered from head to toe, and now sporting my best white Miss Haversham fingerless lace gloves, I join them on the patio.
WINE. They have WINE. I didn’t think Morocco had wine!
‘Is it good?’ I enquire.
“Not bad, it keeps for a few days.”
‘A few days?!’ They can’t be serious!?
Thinking it polite, I order my own bottle, wondering how much I can decently gargle with before I have to put the cork back in.
They are a lovely couple. Jonathan is a quantity surveyor and David retired. They spend every winter in the sun, for the past six years here in Taroudant but before that and after David became too frail for long distance flights, their preferred destination was Thailand. I think it best not to go down that avenue.
The wonder why I am here and I mutter something about hating English winters and not having to be back until May (I am beginning to enjoy my quiet anonymity, perhaps today I could be a witness to a murder and MI5 has given me a new identity?), and we enjoy our lunch and company. I am sure they are quite happy in their own company, like peas in a pod, and don’t need me at all, but they are charming and make a delightful change from the mad monks.
They are leaving on Tuesday and, before I have even washed down the second glass, they have offered me a lift to Agadir with them.
Tuesday sounds like a good day to move on.
I will of course share the taxi fare.