Simon had not even been noticed by the intoxicated Moroccan until now, hunched as he was over the disobedient telephone, and he had the misfortune to spin around impatiently into the glazed face of some wandering urban loony, who grabbed impulsively at the phone card in Simon's hand.

'Give it back!' Simon said in English, clearly wondering who this man was and why he was holding my hand.

'We need this to talk to our friends at home,' I explained, before Simon waved at me to shut up. Simon's way of dealing with these incidents was more direct than my own; he carried on in English while I tried to extract myself from the man's grasp.

'Look I'm not fucking around here,' Simon said, trying to grab his card. The man wafted it nimbly out of reach. 'Give me my fucking card back...fucking give me the fucking card!'

By now a small crowd of bored locals had assembled to watch, hoping vaguely for a bit of action. But I held the man's other hand and Simon was able to pull his BT card out of his grip, leaving him to stagger randomly off up the street. Our audience dispersed, disappointed, and I sighed carefully, thinking what a long day it had been and how much more there was still left. Thank God by about three o'clock we'd be on a coach which, via a quick change in Casa, would take us to Essaouira, the beach, and our friends.

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