My career as an international thief began a quarter of a century ago, on a balmy afternoon in Morocco. A friend and I sat in the gardens of La Mamounia, one of the grandest hotels in the world, a five-star palace of marble and tinkling fountains that Winston Churchill rightly called ‘wonderful’.
Being skint 20-somethings, we were not staying at the hotel. Instead we dropped in for a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice that cost about as much as our flights. It was worth it.
Spindly palm trees soared against a cornflower blue sky. Doves swooped. We drank our orange juice
To provide well-rounded coverage and a breadth of insight across various events, we rely on contributions from several staff writers, each bringing their own area of expertise to our publication.