Almost with pathetic predictability, I’ve joined the ranks of the unwell, with gutache, and actually just-about-everything ache. It’s particularly annoying, as we’ve only eaten posh food and drunk posh drinks. The finger of suspicion falls on one of the following:

1. Some pigeon pie. This was offered as a starter in the restaurant that we eventually found last night after much to-ing, fro-ing and swearing up and down Mohammed V Avenue. Nothing so strange about pigeon pie, you might think, but the characteristically Moroccan sweet tooth has messed somewhat with the “classic” pigeon pie recipe, and the item came coated in a layer of icing sugar. This left it somewhere in that culinary netherworld that sits between fondant fancies and cornish pasties. It was nice, actually, but it’s still repeating on me.

2. Hours upon hours spent in searing heat. “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun,” sang Noel Gallagher, famously, but we did far worse than that: we hired a taxi driver to spend two hours taking us around an industrial estate in search of authentic Moroccan pottery and candles. He ripped us off royally, as is everyone we encounter, and we came away from the experience a) burnt raw despite layers of Factor 2000 sun cream and floppy hats, and b) carrying a bloody enormous candle we didn’t really want.

3. The ice in a drink that was served to us at about midnight in a bizarre oasis of depravity about 8km towards the Sahara from Marrakesh. Obviously Morocco is an Islamic country, and getting a cold beer involves either a) aligning yourselves with the dregs of society and swigging unpalatable bottles of “Casablanca” in a smelly dive populated by drunks and prostitutes, or b) aligning yourselves with high society and getting an expensive cab out of town where caiprinhas and cosmopolitans are served to you until 2am while you lounge on enormous cushions in a faux-Garden Of Eden setting.

Anyway, whatever it was, it got me. Fortunately for you – and I suggest you thank your lucky stars for the rest of the day – I can still type.