Don't you just love flying?

So we’re on our way back now from sexy Marrakesh, with a glowing yet skinless body,(ahh hamman) a short tan, (as in it was frowned upon for bearing skin so now sporting brownish calves and forearms, at least its winter at home) and cystitis said it was sexy did'nt I, nothing to do with the cheap champagne that cost a fortune, god your as bad as my man!

We get to the airport we have a 6am flight, so as you would, I in the early hours suggested we party through, well we had to leave the Riad at 4, “it’s so not worth sleeping”, more cheap/expensive champagne is necked, (not at all enjoyed) only the effects are, not the smell, taste or texture (don’t ask,) any how we arrive red eyed, and rather giddy, and we sit, watching the chaos that those yellow ticket bearing, no frills flying passengers have to incur. My god what a treat, for us not them, even worse for the none bearing yellow ticket holding no frills passengers, Allegedly, what happens is you book your really cheap flight only 2pence one way, 42pence the other way so OK that’s cheap, 44pence, whey what a bargain? Plus, vat now only 15% still not bad, plus airport tax £493.66 not looking soooo good, plus fuel tax to put you off polluting the air £77.62, plus extra leg room, a soggy green bacon and spaghetti sandwich cooked on board, smells divine) £67.74 and then the biggy ……… baggage allowance 2kg per adult, no I have not miss placed a naught, two I say! any more £194.56 per kilo, hence no one at all at check in, everyone with bulging hand luggage, and many many small zip lock bags, with an array of 100mls worth of liquids all of course vital for ones survival. But that’s not my point; after all, of this expenditure while booking your quick cheap get away on the www, you see an amazing thing, something that is going to make you better than the rest, something that is going to make you superior, ahh! The yellow ticket, truly it should be golden, for purchase one of these yellow tickets of destiny and you shall be one to walk with dignity to your air craft (that’s it) walk, and it’s a fiver! Ahem! You see what I did'nt know until this blurred drunken morning, when the steward yells boarding and slams back the gate, (I so wish only posh people were allowed to fly and I were one of them ) the herds jump and leg it, I mean full on Jamaican bloke 100meter sprint, you see there are no allocated seats, (unless you have a yellow ticket) but the fun bit, none yellow ticket holding flyer's are not aware of this luxury, no, surely they would have bought one if they could read, understand /get hold of fiver, so a class war breaks out and it gets messy.Tickets are waved with venom, children are stampeded on, pensioners crushed, by the designer clad, ticket bearing better off, (five pounds better off), A hatred for the middle classes not seen since the miners strikes, it was grim. But funny from I was seated.


We did'nt have a yellow ticket, we were on a more old fashioned class system flight one that you don’t really see much these days, one with first class and second class, (I must add though when going to see England play in the world cup in France 98, air France did invent a third class, especially for the occasion, its true) but in my drunken haze this got me to thinking (and when Essex girl does hazy thinking its wrong!)
“Hey babe, you awake (yes we are still at airport) I say,
“They’re calling our gate number, put that bottle of bubbly in the bin, wipe that saliva from your chin, and follow moi”
and off we go
we walk through the little tunnel, and veer off to the left at the 1st class exit, “ we’re not 1st” whispers my man,
I tell him of my idea, how are they going to know, to ask permission is to seek denial, what harm is there in trying, follow on,
We find an empty seat, (oh how I cringe) a beautiful empty seat, a beautiful leather reclining empty seat with a glass of “expensive,/expensive champagne!”this is the real McCoy no sand papering of the tonsils when you down this nectar. We place our bags in the over head locker, and be seated, “don’t touch anything I say, as I grasp the luxurious bag of welcome aboard 1st class goodies, a satin eye mask round my head, hand cream already applied, champagne flute being re-filled, ahh small pleasures,
“Excuse me” I hear a voice, I peak from satin mask, “may I help,” I smile,
“I think you’re in my seat” it smiles back
“Oh let me see” I flick a blank glance at my ticket number undeterred, “darling we are in the wrong seats” I gasp laughingly,
not to worry, I think, opening second glam bag, and sipping more champagne, the doors are closing, relief, we sit back smug, and satisfied, bliss, my man is donning some spectacular socks, and I am in moisturizing heaven, liberally applying lotions and potions fit for a queen to joint and limb, splendid. Totally got away with it.
Then boom –“MR and MRS ESSEX GIRL please let yourselves be known to the captain or your bags will be moved from the air craft,”
What, shock, horror, how? but, shit, bright red, please floor open up,
My man does the descent thing, I look mortified and spit phrases such as how could you, you said, and, I am so very very sorry ma'am (ma'am? Where did that come from?)
I avoid all eye contact with other real first class citizens, the stewards obvious distaste is enough to sober me up, as she leads us through the thick, plush on one side frayed “on t ‘other curtains, into smelly soggy green bacon and spaghetti sandwich, cattle class. We squeeze into our seats; my man is 6’5 so really it’s a squash and a squeeze. I am sure everyone knows what we have tried to do, then I am sure everyone knows what we tried to do when that stupid, jumped up, jobs worth, taps me not so lightly or politely on the shoulder and says, madam the gift bag if you please, my heart sinks and my hands are so lubricated that there is no way I can hold on to the shiny satin, that she beckons from me, ping, the eye mask torn from my soothed forehead, I fail to hold back a small sob, its all gone, I am no longer a 1st class citizen. My man squishes his legs into what little space we have been given, his feet scraping irritatingly against my sunburned calf, I have only one piece of sunburn how come he can find it, I think gritting my teeth, then my sob turns into hysterics as I notice his velvet socks, 1st class velvet ensembles Hugh Heffner would be proud to wear, my man catches my eye, we both belly laugh for England, in unison, we do the whole shoulder shrugging, chocking back tears, economy class snorting laughter.
As I begin to hazily think, “next time we need to sit either one of us in our allocated seats” I say knowingly “we can pretend the other is sick in the loo”
What next time my man smirks.
Don’t you just love flying?

ahhh hamman! hmm will the breasts survive?

Bugger! just as I pore last of water over ones self, motherly looking woman in white appears to take me for my traditional Moroccan bath.She looks at the pool of water in my belly button, then at the pool of water I'm lying in, and briefly looks mournful, not to be caught out of nurturing motherly character, the look is quickly put back to one of blissful ignorance, and a helpful hand held out for an aghast me to pull myself up from the sodden lounger, "please don't let her think this is sweat I think," I obviously in great British fashion showered before my bath, god forbid I wasn't already clean and polished. She puts a friendly, but vice like grip around my wrist, guiding me to a mosaic tiled wet room. Scattered with irregular sized tin buckets, as well as a huge orange plastic one. At the end of the room is a rather large sink with ornate taps. besides this there is only a wooden bench on which I'm seated.The lady whom we shall call Fatima (it seems most women here are called Fatima) and she is similar to Whitbread with the exception of slightly less lip hair, and a permanent motherly smile, is Arabic and speaks no Englishhhhh, only a little French, so our conversation is petite.Before I go any further I must fess up - I have breast fed children, no great shakes, they were mine! but, I therefore in my defence, (although why i feel the need to defend my actions is beyond me), deserved new boobs, in addition to this, my man (how dare he) during one of my brief complaints of boredom, had the audacity to suggest I get myself a JOB! personal training ( OK your friends) trying to write for a living, and a 12hour day bringing up two under the age of 3, obviously is not real work, just because it doesn't bring in much of an income "yet" so I did get a job, a boob JOB that is. (another day another blog). However my concerns over how my new puppies (only 3 months old, and not been out much) were going to survive, and getting them out in front (no pun) of Fatima was over shadowing the excitement of the experience.So I'm here, in my robe, in my towel, in my, bikini. Fatima tugs at at the robe, I hold tight, then begrudgingly let go, Fatima tugs at the towel, I hold tight, then begrudgingly let go, Fatima tugs at the bikini top, I hold tight, she tugs again, I hold on tighter, I look up toward the ceiling, white knuckled, Fatima rips the top from my grasp, (almost taking an acrylic with her), I clear my throat and look at her expression, it doesn't change, except the glint in her eye sparkles, "nice tits" I expect her to say, she doesn't.She leads me to the center of the smouldering, hot, room, leaving my bikini bottoms, thank god I think the dimples have been left well alone! Until- she slips a finger up my pants, and scoops them up the crack of my arse, "WEDGIE" hello dimples!, even I who workout no less than 6 days a week, gave up caffeine in the 80s, exfoliates, brushes, only eats crap at the weekend (unless its free chocolate) drinks water for the world and his better half (as you know). Still, sadly, has a bit of the dimpled effect going on, so not fair. but I guess its the vino or the vodka? or both, not in the same glass I hasten to add.So, I'm now encouraged (pushed one might say) on to the beautifully tiled floor. WHOOSH! a bucket of Luke warm water, what, where how? WHOOSH! another. I'm pulled back up to standing, (treatment, more like torture) then I'm caressed, so gently with a bar of exquisitely scented soap, ah, let the pampering begin! This lulls me into a calm new sense of security along with the nurturing smile. Falsely, A huge bucket of freezing cold water is poured over my head, it cascades, and cascades, for a very long time, to the point of almost, being too long, I gasp as it stops, and my lungs re-fill, the gentle sweet scented soap is abruptly abandoned, in place of the salt scrub, and boy does she scrub, I fear the bangers might pop in her big rough man hands. (Dead skin removed the pamphlet read), I feel like the cat from itchy and scratchy, afraid to look in case all I see is flesh and bone.WHOOSH! more water, dare I say colder still, which actually, is a good thing, as my skin or should i say flesh rather feels not just hot but volcanic!Slop slop,slop, an unexplainable soothing, black clay mask is applied briskly over my person, I'm again "encouraged" back up to standing, and left, just long enough to set. WHOOSH! more water thrown over me this time coming in from the right, WHOOSH! the left, I'm quite liking this now, I've almost forgotten about all my imperfections and private bits. Suddenly WHOOSH! that huge orange bucket, of yet more water comes down with such force over my head, that my pants hit the deck, about the same time as my dignity, Brazilian exposed! (anniversary pressie for man) Cesarean scar. exposed! (birthday pressie for my children, god I'm generous). Fatima, who I do believe is wetter than I am, ( ahem, for all the right reasons) smiles, and twinkles a bit, I smile bigger, and twinkle brighter. I feel free and very clean, I feel like I've recovered my virginity, (I say recovered, it felt like a car crash loosing it) another day another blog.I am exceptionally, exceptionally clean, invigorated, rejuvenated.My new breasts have been caressed, cleaned, scrubbed, buffed, and baptised. and, I feel no shame, we have survived.

Marakkesh continued-Do you know how long it takes to look this natural?

Is it possible to drown from drinking too much water? allegedly that's what happened to Leah Becks, only I have not had the pleasure of popping an Ecstasy pill, (not today anyway). Merely trying to get a "oh so last decade" tan. You can keep your pale and interesting, I'm not alone in this either, it's a multi million pound industry all this fake bake malarkey. God this is grueling, three and a half liters of water, 42deg heat, but back to good old blighty tomorrow.

"I need a tan" I cry, as my ink melts from the page, yes I write with a pen, a blackberry to me, is still, a not so popular fruit, total Essex girl technophobian and proud. Once photocopied a fax before I sent it, thought we both ought to have a copy of document in question, need i go on? Can't anyway have ungirlie sweat dripping from cleavage onto paper (yes that old matter). Enough said I am cooked! Erm, at least one side is I discover as I take a peek, crab stick springs to mind. (why am i always thinking about food)?

Was about to jump into plunge pool, but cocktail head won't co-operate so going to pour last 1/2 litre of water over ones self instead, probably save me from drowning too, you know i marvel at my own ingenuity sometimes!

"bonjour marakkesh me old mucka"

Here I stand, Marrakesh arrivals, 10.04 in the morning, just having necked a half bottle of bubbly, slightly dazed and warm, very warm, mentally judging the most peculiar of outfits Some may refer to such ensembles as fascinating I, prefer peculiar. For example the girl (or rather woman, knocking on 40 I'd say) is a fine example of why white skinny jeans should be made unavailable to us mere mortals if you're not 6ft tall and 7stone wet through, step away! yes they come in sizes 0-22, yes they "give" but come on that does not mean we should all buy them, least of all wear them. Now I have to be careful here, I don't want to meander off down an alley similar to that of the Marrakesh variety where you get so lost you end totally and literally up shit creek, at which point at least 3 very young locals will appear with much need paddle! For a "fair price" a "very good price, miss England in it" we settle on "best price" I swiftly move on with my camel leather best quality paddle.


You see this is the problem when taking the girl out of Essex I am supposed to be describing lights, DE-lights and hi-lights of Marrakesh, which believe me it has many, many ,many however, instead of musing over the Musee DE Marrakesh or pondering over the palace, I am again without qualification fashion policing. The crazed looking bird in front of me really does look like she has sprayed on her not so "giving" or forgiving white jeans, rolled in super glue and ram raided the Moroccan equivalent of Claire's accessories, never heard the phrase less is more? I've seen less barbie bling at a 4 year old's princess party.

Anyhow back to Marrakesh with its many wonders, I can not emphasize enough how much you all should visit, yes all of you, I'd hate anyone to miss out, this place, its amazing, I feel I want to scream or cry immediately on arriving, I feel as if I've walked onto a fifteenth century film set, it's as if everyone here including the other tourists are putting on a show just for me! sorry us! it's exciting, passionate, smouldering, romantic,and genuine, no acting here no sire, well not much. Of course there are the few imposters trying to make a DH(Marrakesh buck) but most everyone else is just doing what they do. The young boys showing you to your riad for that all important 20p. The big burly women in burkers yielding henna tattoo ink pens, trying with conviction to grapple you to the ground "you actually do need a henna scarred hand it's this season's must have!"The old man telling Arabic tales with such animation and venom, which leads me seamlessly onto snakes. No Essex girl does not feel the need to have one draped around her silk adorned shoulders (well silk is just so reasonable here)but she watches in bewildered fascination as the amused charmer plays his pipe. Snake rises and dances in time (can't help thinking said snake has seen better days, is rather fed up with same bloody tune or at least must have a headache), but exotically speaking it captures any eastern promise that happens to be in you. The smell, sounds and sights around you all become so real; burning incense, thunderous drums, shouts in Arabic, fresh peppermint tea, hashish (ahem), even the praying sounds musical, it's what dreams are made of. Then BAM! back to reality, miss lumpy legs in all her spangly glory takes our cobra friend and drapes him around her bare, yes "ignorant to the local customs bare," shoulders. I lose my sense of romance quicker than Heather Mills lost the plot, really - only Liz Hurley should be allowed to wear white jeans. And wouldn't you know it, Not So Little Miss I don't care if everyone gets a good look at my dimples or my "bare" sun burned shoulders, was English. The shame!