Blinking neons held in absurd contraptions, candles suspended in red glass, tall men spitting fire and the minaret of the Koutoubia mosque, wandering ...he sky like a lost sun. The smell of luscious tajines dances with the stench of the tanneries.This is the warmth of Jamaâ El Fna after a burning summer day, you'd know it from all others. Under your feet, the battered old stones whisper back the merciless vigor of the desert sun.A stranger's wine and the copperish feel of blood linger together on. Now I can think of nothing else.This is where I blame my wicked witch of a mother. She’d only gone and thrown Daddy out of his own house. Worse still, she’d been carrying on with strings of “workmates” for years and her latest toy boy had already moved in with her.Hell, knowing her, she’d probably had him moving in round the back while poor old Daddy trudged off down the drive, all his worldly possessions bound up in a red and white spotted hanky.‘Home” is in West Yorkshire, by the way. Since. More

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