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I was born into wealth but lost it all while on a champagne fuelled gambling spree on the French Riviera. Disowned by my family and hunted by my creditors I spent five years in a cat and mouse chase across Europe and North Africa. For a long time I was hiding in the back room of a fez manufacturer's shop in Marrakech before moving on to Tangier where I got by selling almonds and dates to tourists.

This couldn't last. Sure there were moments of excitement and occasional scenes of vivid, penetrating beauty. Languidly accepting a fig laced with green Chartreuse placed delicately on the tongue by a young arab boy as the sky fractures into a shimmering sunset is not a bad way to while away an idle evening.

But I tired of it; the running, the heady perfumes of travel and adventure, the exquisite damn beauty of it all. I decided to settle into an anonymous life in the north of England. Somewhere where my creditors, my family, and Amir, that sweet boy, would not find me. And this is where I am, staring at the raindrops that run down my double glazed window and wondering what time it is in Casablanca.