The Slipper and the Rose is a film which we used to have when I was very young. It’s basically the story of Cinderella but with random songs thrown in for fun.

No matter how often I tell myself it’s just Cinderella, I can never see it as that though. I used to watch it when I felt ill, wrapped in a blanket with a bowl of pasta shells covered in butter with maybe a little bit of cheese but nothing else. As far as 6 year old me was concerned, the thing which healed me wasn’t warmth, rest, or food, it was a mixture of The Slipper and the Rose, and Lars the Little Polar Bear (another favourite).

Now, you may ask, what does grown-up Sally have going through her perfectly healthy mind, while in Morocco, to remind her of this lovely part of her childhood? What could bring on such nostalgia?

Well, you guessed right. It was being followed by a Moroccan man, who sang to me, and found a rose somewhere (I assume we passed a bush, because otherwise that is just plain weird) and sang about me, and the rose, and tried to give me the rose. It would all have been fantastically romantic if it weren’t for the creepy Moroccan aspect. Someone has to explain to these men that you mustn’t try and pick girls up in the street. You don’t know where they’ve been, for starters. Anyway, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing in his face, but I finally got away, to strains of