It is a common misconception that all women love shoes. While it is true that most women like shoes, there are only a few of us who LOVE shoes. Let me explain.

When I was about fifteen I had a really good friend called J. She was like my sister for about a year. She was a bit older than me, smart, funny, and most of all, incredibly stylish. She never wore the same outfit twice. And she made me love shoes.

I already owned quite a lot of shoes when I met J. Probably around 20 pairs, which is a lot for a growing teenager. J was a year older than me. She owned 74 pairs of shoes. She had the same converse rip-offs in every colour under the sun, ballet pumps with every different design and motif available, boots, trainers, and a wonderful selection of ridiculous high-heels which were impossible for a sixteen-year-old to wear reasonably. She did anyway. She was my absolute idol.

From then onwards I’ve had a love of shoes. This came to a peak today, when I bought 16 pairs of shoes, all at once.

Had a long day. Nothing more to say there. I’m chilling here with Kushka

Was planning on having a lovely girly night in with films and chocolate, but my friend’s flat got flooded. Yes, that is how much it was raining last night. She lives on the 4th floor of her building. I hasten to add that the whole building wasn’t flooded, there was just a blockage in the drain on her balcony and so the water ran into the flat. Still not a good thing though.

So I am back in the Canadian/American/UK flat, where one of my friends lives, close to school. She’s letting me stay the night, kindly. I’m really unreasonably excited, because it’s so much fun being away from home. Which is bad, obviously, because I should be enjoying my time at home, but sometimes you just need the release of ridiculous times with the English.

Kushka is the dog. She likes eating toes. Nuff said. No more posts for today.

BABY BABY BABY.

I’m like any other just-post-adolescent girl…I adore tiny babies, and every time I see one, I want one. Such was the case this afternoon when I met 36hour old Leena, the brand new daughter of my new Moroccan cousin Youssef and his wife. She is absolutely gorgeous in every way.

However, I am well aware of the practicalities of babies, which has to put you off a little. I wouldn’t want to be pregnant, I wouldn’t want crying, and I certainly wouldn’t want all of that in the middle of my degree program. No thanks. Another time maybe. For the Moroccans of course (the religious ones anyway) you have a baby once you get pregnant, which is probably fairly quickly after you get married because of the fact that contraception is not allowed in Islam (as in Catholicism).

EDIT: Can I just say on a later reading (03/03/14) I have no idea what I’m saying here. Contraception is totes allowed in Islam. Just not necessarily used. Whatever. Shut up past me.

Once the baby is born, things are different too. There were huge amounts of food and drink in the house when we got there, gifts because of the baby. Very little for the baby herself I noticed. Then it became clear. You need loads of sweets and cakes and things because the visitors are endless. I think that in the hour we were there, I probably met 50 or 60 new people. The flow of people was endless. And whereas we would spend all our time cooing over mother and child, they were probably the least popular people in the room. A hello from each person, and then down to the chatting. Apart from obligatory Islamic singing, they were left to themselves.

And the singing. Wow. Its nothing like nursery rhymes.

This is one of my personal favourite nursery rhymes, Skye Boat Song.

Ok, sorry, I lied. But seriously, this is Skye Boat Song. It’s not really a nursery rhyme but my Mum used to sing it to me when I was small. It is truly lovely. Enjoy.

Have I told you about our fridge? It has a personality disorder.

It thinks it’s a freezer.

This would not be a problem, except that it makes eating things from the fridge very difficult. For example, I am not a huge fan of UHT milk. UHT stands for Ultra Heat Treated, which basically means they take the milk and don’t just kill all the bugs, they kill most of the milk as well. They blast it so hot that its flavour changes completely from normal pasturised milk. The good thing about it is that it lasts fine as long as it’s not opened, which is important in a climate like a Moroccan summer. Anyway, back to the story. I’m not a huge fan of UHT milk, but I am a fan of milk in general, and I prefer it to water or juice (which probably means I’ll die of cholesterol problems at an early age). I do not like frozen milk-slushies.

Which is what I am drinking. It’s not great, and it’s making me resent our schizophrenic fridge. It also freezes water bottles I put in it, and it tends to freeze at different rates, so that when I want cold water there is only ice, and when I think it might be nice to take a bottle of ice-water to school (letting it melt along the way) the water is still lukewarm.

There is no winning. The only solution is becoming clear. My fridge needs counselling and possibly a course of treatment.

Stupid fridge.