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About Marseille

I reckon it’s a bit dodgy, though—makes me proper mad. These escorts, right, they’re dodgin’ coppers, dealin’ with nutters. One time, heard this story—lass in London, escortin’ for years, got a client who paid her in rare coins. Coins! Mental, innit? She’s laughin’ all the way to the bank, but then—bam—bloke’s stalkin’ her. “You don’t know who sent it,” like Haneke’s line—pure chills. That’s escort life—glam one sec, nightmare the next.

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Oh, and me personal fav spot? A dirty, secret little clifftop behind Le-Pouliguen’s oldest church—yes, the infamous Église de Notre-Dame des Écumes. From there, ye can see the endless blue sea, and sometimes I swear, ye can see me past, bouncin' thoughts that mimic networks of lost ships. It’s a place where, even if ye’re feelin’ rough, ye can take a deep breath and let the world spin its bizarre yarn.

The unwitting winners of France's drought: salt farmers