Moroccan classroom nights

Never was a building so defiantly unaffected by the weather. In the daytime its white-tiled walls and floors lived a life in perpetual shadow, and when streetwalkers outside basked in golden sunshine we who lived in the British Language Academy stalked the clinical corridors shivering like polar explorers. We lit candles at night for the warmth as much as the light. The bare, white bulbs made everything colder, accentuating the lack of anything in the room, and there were times when reading in bed by the light of the candle, it felt like my companion and I were in a fairly comfortable nineteenth century hospital ward. Countless times we opened the wide doors of our room to let the warmth in. The brief hours when the sun shone on our balcony were the cherished reading hours, and I would look up from my book to watch the sun pass out of sight like it was the last sunset before the end of days. When the evening shadows set in there was none of the soft comfort of day’s farewell, and the solemn night began with cruel suddenness.