Or how to find a Danish husband in three days….
In Essaouira I found the calm I had been searching for for quite some time. Armed with an iPad, a book and a boyfriend, I boarded a shockingly early flight directly to Essaouira from Luton. The old Medina, an old city enclosed by an old fortress that has survived the years, hides winding alleys and markets, with the strong scent of fish guts and thuya wood and is engulfed in gusts of wind every few minutes. Our days were spent sprawled across poolside canopy beds, devouring the chapters of my latest novel and wandering the winding streets until we got so lost we had to stop for Moroccan tea and tourist photos.
As London life ticks on, crawls some days and other days, months are engulfed at a time… I grow ever nervous for reasons I can never quite put my finger on. Whether I’m making the right decisions, or not enough mistakes as my former self might have felt entitled to make. I begin to see the same man drinking coffee on a pavement cafe on the way to work and I feel nothing but hopelessness about the passage of time. London is never permanent and yet nearly three years have passed since I started working here, peeling away the days. Morocco was a welcome, and extremely laid back, retreat to an otherwise constantly changing life.