It's become a habit ....

What a contrast! Early morning, the streets are empty instead of thronging, the sun is just starting to rise, and the taxi takes me back to the airport so modern, protective plastic stickers are still all over the front of the building.

I haven't finished with Morocco yet. While I'm drinking a cup of coffee, a man approaches - oh dear - he has an official badge, but I'm now rather wary. 'Are you Rosemary?' he asks. It's my middle name, but I say no ..

A while later, I hear my first and middle names broadcast clearly over the loudspeaker, look around for my passport, kick myself for a fool when I can't find it, trail over towards the information desk, and am accosted by the now-stern looking official again. I look suitably apologetic, idiotic (no change there, then) and chastised and accept my passport and boarding card back again. I'd left them at the cafe counter...

The flight back was a rewind of the flight out, and all too soon, I'm landing at Gatwick, and then there's the tiring and tiresome journeying back to Cambridge, finishing with the languid bus trip to my village in frosty wintery sunlight ... I drag my case through the front door to the enthusiastic barking of my dog.