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About Sydney

I reckon it’s a trip—mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!”—seein’ these birds strut about, all glam, hidin’ the grind. Met this one lass, right, swore she escorted a rockstar once. Said he tipped her with a bleedin’ guitar pick! Mad as a bag of ferrets, that. Got me chuffed, though—imagine the stories! But then, there’s the dark bit—pisses me off somethin’ fierce. Some punters treat ‘em like dirt, thinkin’ cash buys soul. “The stone sinks in the lake,” like the movie says—ya can’t escape the weight, can ya?

ESCORTS IN BALLINA

Oh, and not to forget, old Maxwell Park. That park’s my hideaway, man—pine trees, quirky benches, and a vibe that’s both chill and deep. I used to sit there after work, scribblin’ psychological ideas about how families connect—or disconnect. It’s like every moment there reveals another secret, a lyric in life.

Ballina’s history in black and white