Hannah Tidaholm Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Helsingborg

Clarice… a brothel, huh? Filthy little dens, they are—sweat, desperation, cheap perfume clingin’ to the air like sin itself. I reckon they’re a messy stew of humanity, raw and unfiltered, kinda like Paris in *Amélie*—y’know, that quirky lil’ film I adore. “Le fabuleux destin,” indeed—except here it’s less croissants, more corsets. Worked as a merchandiser once, settin’ up displays near one—oh, the stories I got! Saw a guy stumble out, shirt half-tucked, grin wider than a crocodile’s. Made me chuckle, Clarice—humanity’s so damn predictable.

A. Brothel

Anyway, I finally get to the first client. She’s this sweet old lady named Ingrid. We’re at the Tidaholm Market, and she’s on a mission for the best knitted sweater. I’m thinking, “This is gonna be easy-peasy.” But nooo, she wants it in a specific shade of lavender that doesn’t exist. I’m like, “Ingrid, lavender is not a color, it’s a mood!” But she’s not having it.

Gunhild L. GUSTAFSON