I’ve been tagged! By PJ from Coming2Terms.
“The rules are as follows: first I write a bit about who I am -- eight things to be exact. The second part involves me tagging five others.
1. I am tall
2. I box. It allows me to exhibit more patience to the world.
3. I have done some things I am really ashamed of, and some things that I wish I could take back. It took many years but I have forgiven myself.
4. I want to write stories and have them published. I want zillions of people to buy the books I write. I am terrified I have no talent.
5. I am really nice. It is one of my best things.
6. I once spent the better part of four years in bed, ill.
7. I enjoy speed (race cars, horses, planes, roller coasters, speed boats, motorcycles, hang gliders)
8. I have red hair.
There you have eight hidden facts about me. Then I am to Tag five others:
Sparx you’re it, at notes from inside my head.
i Beatrice you’re it, at I Beatrice.
Q you are it, at long way home.
Piggy you’re it, at pig in the kitchen.
The Good Woman you’re it as well, at My Wee Scottish Blog.
The temperature in Rabat is to be over 96 degrees F today. Oi.
. I was passing the fruit stand on the corner yesterday, where they serve the most wonderful concoction, but do not know the meaning of the phrase “take away”, when a beautiful (I am so serious, think a brunette Brad Pitt with a deep tan) young man of about 30-something, jumped out of a Mercedes (they are everywhere here) briefcase in hand, clothed in a Seville Row looking suit and began walking beside me. “Hello (in English). You are English?”
“Yes, Scottish.” I replied wondering if he knew of our football prowess.
Then he let loose with a string of French way too fast for me.
“Je parle peu le francais.” I replied my standard phrase.
“Will you have coffee with me?” he asked.
“No.” I said, thinking “Oh man he is sooo pretty.”
“Why not?” he asks as if he was shocked at the idea anyone would refuse.
“Because I am on my way to the market.”
“Will you give me your phone number?” he persisted.
“No!” I said laughing in spite of myself.
“Why not?” he asks grasping his chest in mock pain.
“Because I don’t know you!” I said firmly and turned the corner and went into the market leaving him standing on the sidewalk.
Alright, I know the big chances are he was after my passport, or my money, or a visa to the West; but oh man He was soooo pretty! It was rather like getting an unexpected delivery of a dozen roses.