Dancing on the Céline

After a moment of craziness that I won't go into (but which left me with five minutes to pack...) the limousine arrived.

We bundled our sorry asses into the Merc and headed to le Bourget. Halfway there and the Fabulous Parisien's phone rings at exactly the same moment as the driver's does. The driver pulls off the autoroute and back on the other side - we're now heading south, not north.

"There's been a problem with the jet", said le FP. Apparently it was Ghislaine on the phone - sister of La Dion. "Robbie Williams has brought his vist to Paris forward a day and the jet has gone to Stansted to collect him".

"So, we're not going?" I said, stunned at the turn of events.

"No, Chéri, we're going. But we have to get to Orly in the next hour - Céline's people have got us business class tickets on the late flight tonight."

Well, it's no private jet, but hey, I'll cope with business class, right?

A 2 hour 45 minute flight later and we're in another limo heading to the hotel.

Marrakech is dark, warm and smells foreign. The roadside stalls selling grilled snacks are surrounded by people dressed like Obi Wan Kenobi. The world is in motion all around us. En route for the hotel we ask the driver to stop for a few minutes at the Djemaa el Fna - the great square that is the centre of the Marrakchi world.

Snake-charmers, story-tellers, water-sellers and fire-eaters are all around us. We hold hands and walk through the human soup. Every class is represented here - the Dior-clad Eurotrash and the street urchins, the Casablanca urbanites and the blue men from the desert, the rent-boys and the veiled ladies.

It's a long way from Paris. It most definitely isn't Kansas.

Back in the car for ten minutes and we arrive at the hotel. I say hotel, I mean palace.

The large wooden doors open to reveal an amazing, surreal, beautiful palace, straight from the 1001 Nights. A palace with all mod-cons, naturally.

We are taken to our room - a traditional 'caravanserai' style tent in the gardens - complete with our own private terrace and a bathroom to die for. The host lets us into the tent and it's like entering a dream.

The log fire is lit, the champagne is on ice. The room is twice the size of my apartment and is lined in beautiful moroccan silk, with furnishings in chocolate leather and dark wood. Too beautiful.

An hour later and I'm curled up on the immense sofa, in front of the log fire with le FP. We have champagne and from under our fur blanket (I kid ye not) we're watching a movie on the enormous television.

Le FP turns to me.

"I never want to leave," he said. "This is as happy as I've been in ages."

What could I say? How to answer?

I leaned in and kissed him. It was the best answer I could find.