In The Souks

It started, as always, with a hook. "Do you speak English? Can you translate this word? Come in, sit down." Inside there were two padded benched arranged in an L, a single wooden stool, glass jars packed tight on a shelf, and a dog-eared book of testimonials from English-speaking friends: "This one, she's a Maths teacher from Brighton - you know Brighton? I lived there before. Too fat. She should come and live in Morocco. We like big women here. Tell me, do you sweat more than you piss?"

I lay on the bench, my face an inch or two from the wall. "You're very flexible," he said, twisting my leg towards the ceiling. "See how flexible? And excellent blood circulation too. In a few days you'll feel a great warmth." Fairly likely, I thought, as the temperature outside was pushing thirty degrees.

When it was over I got a torn piece of paper with a number scribbled on the end. I laugh, we haggle, he gets offended and starts quoting the price he could charge in England. Eventually we settle on a quarter, still more than the whole thing was worth.

The curtain opens. Unwittingly, the next customers approach.