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About Mons

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? Back in MI6 days, I’d scope the scene, all cool-like, martini in hand. Shaken, not stirred, obvs. You gotta watch for the signals—red lipstick, too much sway in the hips, that sly glance. Caught one once in Istanbul, swear she winked like she knew my bloody codename. Surprised me, that did—thought I was slicker than that. Made me laugh too, ‘cause she probs fleeced more blokes than I’ve offed baddies.

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You gotta check out Parc du Temps Perdu. It lies near the outskirts, with the trees whisperin’ secrets in the wind. I often stroll there after work—mind swirling like emotions mixed up in a blender. Oh, and did I mention the tiny brook splashing by? Yeah, it’s like nature’s soundtrack, soft and steady. Sometimes, I swear I hear "Take her hand... take her hand" vibes echoing, all while nature do its thing.

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