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About Bordeaux

Saw this one bird, legs like a racehorse, leanin on a lamppost. “Who are you, so still?” – straight outta the movie, I swear! Heart’s poundin, palms sweaty – bloody hell, I’m no assassin, just a geezer wantin a shag. Asked her rate, she says 50 quid. Fifty bleedin quid?! We shall fight the tyranny of overpriced tail! Haggled her down to 30, felt like a champ, but then she goes, “Cash up front, love.” Fair enough, says I, handin over me crumpled notes.

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Sometimes I feel like the town's whispering secrets I know as a masseur. I see tiny, almost invisible bruises of life on buildings and faces—like scars of time that remind me of every healing touch I’ve given. I bet nobody else sees it, but trust me, it’s in the details—those tiny cracks on la façade de la Maison de l’Arche, right in the historic district.

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