While (over)packing for four nights in Marrakesh, I found myself rifling through box after box of clothes I’d still not unpacked after the move. Clothes I’d forgotten I owned. Clothes I haven’t worn for years. Clothes I don’t even like. Why?!
Somewhere between trying to squeeze a few more dresses into my luggage and rolling my eyes at myself for hanging on to so much, I decided enough was enough. When I got home, I was going to have a proper clear-out.
So I’m about to enter my Vinted era. I’ll spend a few days listing everything ridiculously cheaply and, if it doesn’t sell, or if I lose interest (highly likely), it’ll go straight to charity. Quite a lot will probably skip the Vinted stage altogether.
I want to come out the other side of this renovation with less. Less clutter. Less stuff that exists in my life simply because it’s always existed in my life.
And I think that frame of mind shaped everything that happened in Marrakesh.
We’d wanted to go somewhere different this summer. I’d always fancied Marrakesh, Baxter loved the idea of quad biking in the desert, and Ed and I were perfectly happy with the thought of wandering without much of a plan, reading, eating delicious food and escaping real life for a few days. So we booked it, almost on a whim. What we didn’t do, rather stupidly, was check the weather. The forecast hovered somewhere between 38 and 43 degrees for our stay, barely dropping below the low thirties at night. By 10.30pm it was still 33 degrees, and it was, without question, the hottest I’ve ever been. Lesson learned.
Before we left, I’d imagined myself coming home with half of Marrakesh packed into my suitcase. Ceramics wrapped in t-shirts, heavy throws, handwoven baskets, maybe even a rug if I could convince myself it would somehow fit. I’d always heard about the magical souks, and I thought I’d be beside myself with shopping excitement.
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