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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Now, I'll drop a secret on ya: my favorite, lowkey hangout? Tucked near the old mill on Chemin du Souvenir. Not many know 'bout it, but it's where the echoes of laughter and secrets of lost romantics mingle in the twilight. I often muse, head poppin' with thoughts, "Do you feel the pulse of the world, my friend?!"

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