The Ramblings of Boots

It’s grey.

The sky that is.

Properly grey – and cold. Well 62 degrees of cold and that, in my book, is only slightly above freezing.

No chance of enjoyable slothful study today then?

Proper slothful study can only really be entered into with enthusiasm when the temperature gauge rises above 70.

Having finished ‘Committed’, Elizabeth Gilbert’s sequel to ‘Eats, Prays, Loves.’ which was both enjoyable and informative but, for someone like me who likes her ballerinas in tutus and her books in basic, just a bit too navel contemplating and deciding that today I will take on Elizabeth Gaskell’s, ‘The Life of Charlotte Bronte’, but failing to connect with the author, who was born Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson (a name that might interest a couple of readers) despite loving her novel ‘Sylvia’s Lovers’, I allow myself to drift aimlessly, and to think about things one really shouldn’t when one is bored and the sky is grey.

Masturbation.

Don’t turn your nose up in horror or coy embarrassment (Offsprung excepted), I told you girls, we are all the same. So don’t pretend you have never heard of the word or engaged in the act because me and Elizabeth Gilbert won’t believe you , despite the fact she only uses the word once in ‘Eats, Prays, Loves (she is obviously a far more spiritual being than me).

Look I’m travelling on my own. I have no desire to return home with some unspeakable sexual disease and believe it or not boys, girls have needs too.

It’s a funny word isn’t it? Masturbation, Frigging, Buffing the Beaver, or my personal favourite ‘Airing the Orchid’.

Whether using the hands God gave us, or man made devices, it is a basic need when travelling alone, like occasional hot water and travel insurance – not something you need every day but good to know it’s available.

Taking a vibrator on your journey, for me is not an option. As one who blushes with the fury of a menopausal hot flush when my electric toothbrush goes off in my hand luggage, the mortification of having my case opened and a sex aid being discovered by the queue police would ensure I never left Blighty again.

I am not really sure why we find vibrators embarrassing but we do. We hide them in the knicker drawer and, if we’re really posh we have a special satin purse for them to rest in, safely hidden under the Big Pants…like no-one would dream of looking under the Big Pants.

I remember when a clever young friend  lived in the East End and shared a house with more clever young things. She was away travelling one time and, whilst away, the house became infested with bedbugs and had to be decontaminated; yes even clean hair can attract nits and clever young things, bedbugs.

On return she was on the phone to her house mate:

“You what? You had to take EVERYTHING out? EVERYTHING?”

Her housemate was a man, albeit a man of the, David, naughty boy variety.

“Oh my God!” She slams down the phone.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

“Bedbugs. They’ve had to take everything out of my room!”

Yuk.

‘Never mind’ I offer consolingly, ‘at least the bed bugs have gone’.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G!”

Yep, her only embarrassment wasn’t the smelly socks, the penicillin left over experiments under the bed, the unwashed bedlinen… it was the fact that they had found her vibrator.

What has all this to do with being kind to your knees one of you might be wondering – bear with me.

I have always been of the belief that exercise in any kind of strenuous form, outside of the bedroom, is bad for you. One of my dearest friends, (also a singleton) who cycles everywhere, runs three miles a day and, just for the hell of it plays netball all weekend, has had to have a knee replaced and the surgeon assures her the second one may follow.

I keep telling her that exercise is merely a substitute for sex.

Imagine my delight therefore when I came across this bit in ‘Eats, Prays, Loves.’ (Kindle Page 294)

Wayan, our heroine’s Balinese friend, is tending her injured knee.

“ I can tell by your knees that you don’t have much sex lately.”

I said, “Why? Because they are so close together?”

She laughed. “No-it’s the cartilage. Very dry. Hormones from sex lubricate the joints.’

Wayan goes on to tell the author she will find a man for her.

My point is, if you are alone on your travels and the sky is grey, don’t go for a quick jog up a mountain, give yourself a little pleasure – air the orchid – be kind to your knees.

Fear not, dear reader, sunshine is forecast for tomorrow.

Honestly, it’s a career I would be well suited too – two weeks in Morocco has taught me that.

Why do we have to do? To achieve? To make our indelible mark on this planet?

Why can’t we just, be?

I am enjoying this ‘just being’ bit of my life. I am enjoying not making the bed. I do feel a little guilty  when I come back to the room and find that not only is the bed made but my smalls (left soaking in the sink) have been carefully washed and are now hanging out to dry on coat hangers on the balcony, but only a little guilty.

I am enjoying not washing my hair every day, well it is Africa and you wouldn’t expect the hot water to work EVERY  day. I do wash, I hasten to add, whether it’s hot or cold, the water I mean. I am after all still a novice on this ‘learning how to be a sloth’ study course. Perhaps next week I will feel liberated enough to dispense with the ‘washing every day’ ritual. I am even enjoying wearing the same clothes for three days, (maybe not the smalls, I’m far too repressed for that).

I love the reasons given for it not working; the hot water that is.

‘When will we have hot water?’  I ask at reception, without urgency or malice, three weeks in India taught me that water (of any kind) every other day, is a luxury.

“When the guests have gone, Madam.”

Of course, silly me. Why would ‘guests’ need hot water?

‘How do you fill your time?’ David asks one afternoon over mint tea in the ‘men only’ cafe across the road. David realises I am not in the least bit phased by men only establishments of any description.

We had gone there to seek refuge as  President Chirac is in town and our quiet little oasis has been invaded by burly, sunglass wearing ‘suits’, and the car park commandeered by limos with blacked out windows.

“I mean we have to have structure in our lives.”

It’s true we do, and my new sloth life is perfectly structured.

I wake with the sun, a habit that has been with me for decades, and means that when I reside in northern climes I can sleep away most of the morning.

I go to breakfast taking my adored kindle as my companion. The chef seems to have become fond of me and the head waitress believes I am ‘simpatico’  (perhaps she has ambitions of becoming  a sloth herself).

While the rest of the guests plough their way through Moroccan pastries (I have tasted better) and mountains of bread, I am presented with an omelette, a yoghurt and fresh fruit. Ignoring the germanic glares, I politely thank the chef and, once finished, adjourn to reception for a couple of hours on the computer.

I have to confess, I have yet to look at anything of substance on the computer or to consider editing the work I promised myself that I would. No, instead I catch up with Facebook, play a few games of scrabble,  see how badly hated teams are doing in the premier league, check the weather forecasts in London, Marrakech and Taroudant, allow myself a quiet smirk and two hours later go back to my studies of slothfulness.

Three  hours on the pool deck, there are two (pool decks) but only one where lying almost naked is tolerated, thankfully it is the one below my Moroccan blue balcony, then it’s time to hit the town.

I do walk into town, which is more than David and Jonathan do, they take a horse drawn carriage,  but they are several modules ahead of me on the sloth degree course.

There really isn’t much to do in town, apart from marvel at its ageing beauty and loathe the invasion of 20th century motor bike fumes.

There is a modicum of danger in the walk. I am aware that in Morocco the rule is to drive on the right and that, as a pedestrian, I should therefore walk on the left – into the traffic. I am aware of this but, a bit like getting to grips with French verbs, I am not good at it. Stepping off the pavement invariably causes much screeching of brakes and hand gestures and loud words in Arabic – I will master this art before I leave.

The souk is deliciously cool in the middle of the day, and I wander around with absolutely no intent and marvel at the cobblers, the tailors, the candlestick makers.

Then it’s time for lunch in the square whilst I explore the latest book on my trusty kindle (thank you for the best present ever, Offsprung).

After lunch, I pick up a bag of dates (50p’s worth lasts at least 3 days) then, risking life and everyone’s limbs, head back to the hotel for more sloth activity by the pool.

6 pm and I finally drag a brush through my hair and put a bit of makeup on (mainly to cover the sunburn) and head to the bar.

Two hours of intermittent internet, 2 beers and one chicken sandwich later, I’m exhausted and happily retire to my room to continue my kindle love affair.

What isn’t there to like about life as a sloth?

In my case should be retitled: ‘Pecks at, sleeps, lights another ciggie’, having no intentions of learning Italian, committing to any religion, or giving a shit about the balance in my life.

I LOVED it. The book ‘Eats, Prays, Loves’ that is, and am devouring her second, ‘Committed’, and learning an awful lot about religion and marriage in the process.

Surely Elizabeth Gilbert is me? Of course I know she isn’t, she’s several decades younger, far more sussed, and has a greater command of the comma than I shall ever have, but she so understands that we are all the same. 

Tragic. The realisation that we are all the same. Tragic but comforting. There are thousands of 21st century women right now on their own personal roads of discovery, all of us finally realising…we are all the same. I commend it to all women and can only say it is head and shoulders above the film.

Back to more salacious issues, (having discovered all women are the same, I am now depressed, comforted and bored.)

David and Jonathan. What a couple! Actually what a menage a trois. It turns out that there is a third member of their harmonious matrimonial set up – Charles.

They have all lived together for nigh on fifty years. Well first David and Charles. Jonathan came on the scene some five years later (a sexy little whippersnapper), and was almost a deal breaker.

David is -naughty. I suspect David has always been naughty and, being naughty, he recognised a kindred spirit the moment he spied my Miss Haversham gloves.

I have many ‘naughty’ David’s in my life and I love them all. They are the best company, cock a snoop at any kind of conformity and revel in mischief making.

Some years ago, on being introduced to a friend of my daughter’s (another David) and seeing the look of puckish delight that passed between us, she moaned, “Oh my God, I wish I’d never introduced you!” Naughtiness naturally followed. Not nastiness, just devilment.

Back to the menage a trois. 

David made, and lost, fortunes in the city, being a) excellent at making money and b) hopeless at holding on to it.

In days gone by they would hire Claridges for parties at enormous expense, travel the world first class (they managed to wangle directorships of a travel company) and generally live the life of Riley. 

Now they are in “The final decade” as David says, and live a far simpler life.

They are not destitute by any means, the mews house off Kensington High Street, the cottage in Brighton and extended holidays (albeit now travelling cattle class) testify to that, but they have slowed down.

Days for David and Charles are now spent watching the horse racing on television and placing the necessary bets, better  to enjoy a few moments of instant gratification (sex having been relegated to ‘memory lane’ some years ago), while Jonathan, “He’s so sensible and kind”,  still holds enough enthusiasm for the ‘cut and thrust’ of commerce to go out and earn a living. He is currently working on a boutique luxury hotel in central London but his past client list reads like a who’s who of any Rich List you care to name.

‘Wasn’t it difficult when Jonathan came on the scene?’ I ask.

“Oh yes” says David “But I love them both, what could I do?”

Only a truly ‘naughty’ boy could get away with it with such flair – and he did, for 45 years they have lived together in a harmony that most heterosexual marriages can only dream of.

“You see” he explained to me over beers in the bar “Jonathan loves me and Charles loves me and I love both of them.”

How simple, how stupid of me not to understand.

“Now tell me how many times have you been married?” 

Naughty boy.

He worms all  my secrets out of me and we giggle like kids behind the bike shed, luxuriating in our new ‘naughty’ friendship.

A phone call last night has cast a shadow over their happiness.

Charles has been taken into hospital. Charles is more ‘upper crust’ than Jonathan but not in any way, David is quick to point out, a drama queen.

Charles has cancer. David tries to hide his worry.

“That’s life, my darling, but I do hate the dreaded C.”

I squeeze his hand and hope that all will be all right, knowing it most probably won’t, and sensing that their final decade, like sand, is gathering speed as it trickles down through the egg timer of life.

They left today.

I decided to stay, they will need to adjust on the journey home and don’t need to entertain an interloper, besides the weather is still too cold further north for me.

We have exchanged details, well Jonathan has given me his business card and home details – “I leave all that to Jonathan” says David, adjusting his ‘Death in Venice’ hat to a jaunty angle in a brave attempt to hide his hurt.

“You must come up to Kensington and I’ll show you that dreadful newscaster who walks around Waitrose in leggings with her underwear showing and no make up.”

Having promised each other the delights of newscasters in Waitrose and tea at Hampton Court, they depart pressing bottles of water, pots of pistachio yoghurt and kisses on me.

I hope all goes well. I know we will never meet again.

Jillian Lauren’s ‘Some Girls: My Life in an Harem’ is an easy holiday read with dark undertones of mental health and rejection. Being just over half way through, I can’t really comment on the ending or its purpose but it has taken me down the path of life’s  of ‘What ifs?’

According to some ‘What if’s’ are the domain of historians, looking back on the past wondering how the future would have turned out if something had happened differently.

For me ‘What ifs’ have always been choices for the future, tools to put a story line in place. My choices of the past more resembling ‘There buts’, as in ‘There for but for the grace of God’, however today reading Jillian Lauren’s book, I allow myself to drift down memory lane.

Many decades ago as a young, some would say ‘pretty’,  wife, mother and aspiring actress, a dear friend, Tony Arnold, a BBC producer and perfect gentleman, asked me if I would take part in a series of training films for new directors.

As all aspiring actresses will know more time is spent ‘resting’ than actually working, so any kind of contract is more than welcome. I grabbed the opportunity.

Groups of foreign students would come from exotic countries to learn about television at the BBC. They would direct actors in short scenes from well known plays, and film them. Shelagh Delany’s ‘A taste of Honey’ being especially popular; me, invariably playing Helen.

I ended up doing several of these training courses for Tony and, over the years became good friends with him and his wife, Elaine. Elaine came originally from Somalia. Highly intelligent, a career woman in her own right and devoted to Tony yet, in the eyes of the establishment at that time, not quite acceptable. Elaine was black.

Such prejudice would thankfully be despised today but in the early 70’s, despite professing to be the liberal face of Britain, the BBC was still clinging to its corduroy trousers of elitism. Tony wanted to buy a house in Surrey but was concerned about how the neighbours would react to him living there…with an African wife.

I was appalled and spent a drunken evening at their home in Holland berating the establishment as ‘hypocritcal’ and ‘bourgeois’. Tony, just filled up our drinks and smiled philosophically.

Tony could drink my husband under the table, which was no mean feat. In fact he could drink him under the table with dignity and aplomb. They would sink at least two bottles of excellent malt then Tony would stand up, seemingly stone cold sober, and announce he was ‘off to bed’, at which point he would fall face first onto the sofa and remain there till morning.

My husband, so impressed with this meticulous display of superior drunkenness, adopted the habit in later years, although he never quite perfected it, more often ending up in A&E as he fell over a low wall into a bed of brambles, or face first onto a concrete path.

I digress.

On one particular training course in Shepherds Bush, there was a young man called Ismail, who seemed not to have bonded with his fellow classmates and was something of a loner. Feeling sorry for this poor student, I suggested to my husband that we should have him round for dinner.

At that time we lived in a maisonette in West Norwood, our first home. My husband, believing himself to have a superior eye when it came to decorating than I, had decided the sitting room should be covered in hessian wallpaper. We had acquired an old green and teak Norwegian sofa and chairs from my parents, and the room was completed by the introduction of a Hammond electric organ, more suited to the Odeon Leicester Square than South London. I can’t begin to describe how hideous it looked. It was the only house I ever allowed him to decorate.

I was, even in those days of young enthusiastic wife, a domestic disaster, however I figured that as a poor student Ismail would be grateful for whatever was put in front of him. Quiche Lorraine, home grown new potatoes and salad (we were going through our ‘Good Life’ phase at the time), seemed safe enough.

Ismail arrived and a pleasant evening ensued. He was introduced to our son, a terrible two, and politely refused the gut rot Blue Nun we thought the height of sophistication.

The following week he came again and brought with him the most exciting toy a two year old could aspire to…A Batmobile! Son was in raptures. It was the ‘it’ toy of the day, black and shiny and firing little red rockets. It must have cost Ismail all of his student grant.

The training course finished and life returned to resting, one o’clock clubs and carting the laundry to the laundrette in the pram.

Six months later a letter dropped on the doormat. A letter more glamorous than any I had ever seen before. Crested, embossed and with stamps that, had I been a philatelist,  I would have delighted over.

I was sure it was a mistake. It was from the Sultan of Brunei, inviting me to come on a two year contract to teach television there at salary that was in the  ‘winning the pools’ parameters.

Straight on the phone to Tony.

‘Tony I’ve got a letter from the Sultan of Brunei! Where is Brunei for Fuck’s sake? He wants me to go there and teach television! What do I know about television? I don’t even understand that thing about the camera crossing the line’.

I could hear Tony’s gentle smile down the phone.

“You know at least 18 months more than they do” .

‘Why me? Why Brunei? Who the hell do I know in Brunei?’

“Ismail of course.”

Ismail? Our poor starving student. What on earth did he have to do with the price of a bar of soap?

“He’s the Sultan’s younger brother, Kim…Prince Ismail.”

Oh my god! The hessian walls, green sofa and chairs and Hammond organ blushed in shared mortification. We had given a muslim prince quiche Lorraine and Blue Nun.

I never did go.

To Brunei that is.

It turned out the contract was single status and Tony said that Ismail had ‘a thing’ about me (I never was any good at recognising that). Lord and master was having none of it.

Do I regret?

Not a jot.

Not everyone can say they have entertained a prince in a maisonette in West Norwood and frankly experience, and finishing Jillian Lauren’s book,  has taught me that I would have been ill suited to life in a harem.

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.