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Now, lean in, here’s the quirky bit—I’m obsessin’ over their shoes, yeah? Always shiny, clickin’ like beetle wings. Why’s that stick in my head? Dunno, mate, but it’s hypnotic. Oh, and the stories! Heard one about an escort who nicked a bloke’s watch mid-date—cheeky minx! Laughed my arse off imaginin’ him chasin’ her, trousers half-down. Sarcasm? Sure, half these punters think they’re Casanova, but they’re just wallets with legs—escorts know it too, takin’ the piss behind their backs.

Êtes-vous majeur ?

After that, I head back to the lab, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. But then, I walk in, and my assistant, Julie, is freaking out. “The samples! They’re gone!” I’m like, “What do you mean gone?” Turns out, some idiot mixed them up with the trash. I could’ve screamed. I mean, c’mon! We’re in Saint-Affrique, not a dumpster diving competition!

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