Here's looking at you kid...

I'm sitting in Casablanca, looking out at the gathering gloom of a rainy dusk, when an ancient woman appears at the doorway. 

She's from out of town (and out of mind) and the lines on her face are like the dried-up river beds of a distant planet photographed through the Hubble space telescope. 
She has the regulation bundle tied to her back with a blanket, and a felt flower-pot hat which has moulded its shape to the misfortunes of its owner.

Casablanca is a place where, just as in the film, an odd assortment of misfits hang out, drinking coffee, beer, juice, wine, eat, play cards, chess, and read the papers. They may not be waiting for papers of transit, but they seem to be waiting for something to happen.

The woman is clutching two small netted bags of lemons, the ones that are about the size of hen's eggs, and she is hoping to make a sale. I am sitting at the table by the door, so I am the first to shake my head, followed by others further inside.

A few moments later the security guard — green military-style uniform, baton, cuffs, mace spray (but no handgun), follows her in and asks her to leave. He's just doing his job, of course, just like Captain Louis Renault at Rik's.

As she walks back past I call her over, despite the security guard waving his finger at me, in a gesture I can only interpret as, "You'll only encourage them."

The bags of lemons are $B2 each, about 20p). I buy two bags. Lemons always come in handy.

Soon after, two girls, sorry, young women... (okay then, hippy chicks) walk in trying to sell incense sticks. I hold up my hand to say "no thanks" and they, like the old woman, try their luck with the other punters further inside.

For some reason (because they are European perhaps?) the security guard does not reappear to evict them from the premises.