A London Winter is typically miserable - its chilly without being properly cold, and drizzling and dank: a flabby kind of temperature that plays havoc with my hair and sense of humour.
Relief is a three and a half hour flight and a three hour taxi ride away - I left a dismal west London at 9.30 and by seven I was in a tshirt having dinner in Essaoueria - close enough to the Sahara to enjoy temperatures in the seventies in late November, and close enough to London to make a long weekend make sense.
What can I say, it's blissful. After a morning touring the charms of the ancient port and medina, I retired with a book to a sun lounger on the roof of the Riad for an hour. Dorothy, we're not in London anymore.