Have you seen the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, with Jimmy Stewart and the gorgeous Donna Reed, about the banker who wanted to commit suicide and Clarence his guardian angel whose job it was to stop him? It’s wonderful! It’s a love story. It’s a weepy. If you want to see one of my favourite clips from it go here:- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qf6e6dY1F0E.

Yup. I am an old softy!

I believe in guardian angels, as I do ghosts – having witnessed a very loud one, UFO’s, having seen one – two – in fact.  I also believe that there is life after death and that there is a Heaven. And I also believe in prophetic dreams, of which I have had a few. More on those later.

This is a story about a little girl I came across in Morocco. For a time I was her guardian angel, although ultimately I had to call on another to help me out.

Back in the 70’s three of us, David Fawcett, a close friend and business partner, and a mutual friend, Liz, flew to Morocco.

We traveled round the country not really enjoying it. We stayed in some scruffy hotels on some scruffy beaches where we watched packs of wild dogs take charge of the sands.

I think we were all grateful when we ended up at Casablanca and drove up to its best (Swiss run) hotel.

Booked in, bathed and in need of a glass or two we found the bar. Here, in no time, we met an American called Dr Peter Mencher, a name and man I‘ll never forget.

Peter said that although he was American he was based in Frankfurt where he worked as a medical doctor. He said he had been working hard, needed rest and wanted to visit Marrakesh, of which he had heard much.

I told him we had just come from there and as the evening progressed and we got to know him better, or so we thought, I said that I would be happy to take him back.

Peter and I left early the next morning. We stopped at a camel market but found nothing to our liking and I remember a particular stretch of the road that ran dead straight for 12 kilometers.

Now I think you should know that this was many years ago, that I then I was somewhat foolhardy and that I knew I was taking a risk traveling with this man. There was something not quite right about him. But I was interested in tempting and testing fate and I was interested in putting myself in a situation of risk to see what might happen. Wasn’t that what travel was all about? Adventure? To put yourself into a different and unknown element and to look for trouble (as Zorba might have said?)

When we arrived at Marrakesh we booked into the Holiday Inn (Peter felt safe here). We knocked around the town, chatted with girls, danced in night clubs and did our best to spend our money.

In those days there was no such thing as an ATM machine, you had to present yourself to the bank. So on the fourth day, as I always did when visiting my UK bank I dressed in a fine gray suit prepared to look like the wealthy man I was. Peter, I remember, wore a rather bright blazer of a kind which the Americans call smart! (Sorry Americanos!)

We drove to where we thought the hotel concierge had told us was where we would fine the most international bank, somewhere near the Djemaa el-fna. This is the heart of M. It is a huge square where all kinds of goods are sold from countless stalls night and day and where snake charmers draw in large crowds of onlookers and story tellers large crowds of onhearers. Among these glide turbaned water carriers. holding shoulder high polished containers from which, when called upon, they pour long, cold streams of water into silver tumblers.

Driving through this ensemble was not the brightest of ideas, so we took a side road.

Except it wasn’t  road. It was more like an alley. This was the real, the untouristy, ‘close and packed’ part of town and the alley which bent to the left became narrower still.

There were no pavements; there was no space for them.

Up ahead  surged a mass of white, a crowd of men, shouting and gesticulating. They completely blocked the way.

I looked back. That was blocked too…..

C 2010 J Hepworth Snorban UK Ltd