It is a fine spectacle, in short, and one which I enjoy to no end.

First, the fine Euro-Maghrebine chicas strutting their stuff warms my heart, or something like that, and provides no small amount of visual distraction in those few moments that I escape my Screens and data.

Indeed, given the recent office drought of Leb Pop Tartery and the utterly sub-standard receptionists now in place, a bit of Euro-Maghrebine pop tartery is warmly welcomed. And so too by the local boys, who can dream of their Euro-Maghrebine slut-wife with a fine Euro citizenship package.

That is until moralising kicks in.

This reminds me of my neglected post - as soon as I finish my real work trying to find interesting things to say about MENA IPOs and private high net worth investing - on something attached to this subject.

Otherwise, it is also the season that one is reminded that literally millions of Maghrebines live and work in Europe, and that they are one of the prime drivers of liquidity in the system - as well as the real estate booms in weird places in the middle of bloody nowhere that only expatriated bumpkins would think is worth socking tens of thousands of Euros into dubious multi-story housing. On the other hand, it is housing.

Off, must meet some official people, get drunk and talk about things they shouldn't share with me, and me them. Quid pro quo.

Later I have to engage my upcoming joint venture partner in a particularly tedious conversation regarding documentation that this incompetent and irritating government requires of me to prove good faith, good morals, proper club membership, etc. etc. so as to allow the JV to go forward.

Of course, I am lukewarm on the concept to start with, but in for a penny, in for a pound. Signed up to - although the surprise faqih convo put me in a bad move, even if it was a shrewd move on her part. Bloody vixen knows my scummy mindset too well.