I’m currently in Marrakech for half-term and was planning on writing a column about how disappointed my children are by this cosmopolitan city. To them, it’s not exotic at all. On the contrary, it’s indistinguishable from large swaths of west London. My four-year-old woke up in the taxi taking us from the airport to our villa, having slept all the way, and immediately started complaining. ‘Why are we back in Shepherd’s Bush?’ he asked, pointing at a mosque. ‘I thought we were going on holiday?’
But Caroline has forbidden me to write that column on the grounds that it’s ‘racist’ or, at any rate, might be perceived as such by the Guardian-reading thought police. So instead I thought I’d write about how hedonistic the Brits become whenever they go on holiday.
For well-to-do folk like me, it takes the form of obsessing about food.
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