The final humiliation

My fate was decided by the arrival of a small, toothless, Berber lady wearing nought but a headscarf and a pair of knickers.

After making me lie prostrate on the tiled floor, she proceeded to don a pair of sandpaper-like mitts and scrub about 10 layers of skin off my body whilst singing a medley of Berber party favourites.

Morocco’s answer to Kylie? I think not. I had to lie there, open-mouthed at the indignity of the whole thing and watch my “suntan” disappear down the plughole.

Meanwhile, “Kylie,” with an evil glint in her eye, filled bucket after bucket with freezing cold water.

ARRRGGGGHHH! My squeals of agony elicited no sympathy but much laughing and pointing from the regulars, all of whom where enthralled by the sight of the screaming white girl.

When the last bucket had been emptied over my shivering form, it was time for one final humiliation.

Gathering her mates in a circle, “Kylie” gestured for me to dance and, after seeing what she’s prepared to do with a loofah, I wasn’t going to argue.

I emerged into the changing room like a shiny pink doll.

Seriously, you‘ve never been clean until you’ve been scrubbed senseless by a saggy-titted Berber bird. They’d pay a fortune for that in LA.

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