It is summer for the southern hemisphere (although with the drizzle outside, you wouldn’t know it). Everyone is hitting up the beach, downing the beers and rocking the perfect ‘I just went for a swim, how amazing does my hair look’ ‘do.

Except me of course.

I spent the morning trawling the deserted CBD for a place that would fix my sever grump and give me coffee. Luckily I did find one small café willing to hand over the goods (and I rather gruffly told the barrister to make it with “full fat milk, not that skinny shit”). Although, it hasn’t picked me up out of my slump.

And, much like any normal person, I’m feeling sorry for myself and looking at my friends Instagram updates of sun, sand and celebrations. I’m sadistically sabotaging any chance of a good mood by pushing away happy thoughts (such as “ in a couple of months I’m off to travel the world, on a holiday without an end date”), and simply groaning and whinging about the fact that the boy has up sticks and left me alone to bring in 2014 by myself (with a bottle of gin and a Mad Men marathon*).

Where I wish myself, and my wardrobe, were on this lack lustre workday are the streets of Marrakech. Flaunting Aztec prints, floaty silk dresses and an abundance of bangles. This height-of-summer trend has my heart completely captivated.

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The beach isn’t an option for me this New Years, but maybe, just maybe, the bright and bold beats of tribal tones will knock me out of my jealous haze and jolt me into a Monday mood that won’t leave my poor work mates gasping for air (after I talk AT them about how unfair it is that I have to work, when the world seems to be playing).

*I actually have some pretty amazing new years plans that involve my wonderful girlfriends, a 5-course dinner and too much red wine, that doesn’t sound so dramatically emo!

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