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About Montpellier

She’s got this story—swear it’s true—bloke once paid her in fish and chips! Fish. And. Chips! I’m dyin’, mate, cos who does that? Some geezer too skint for a tenner, reckon he thought she’d fancy a cod instead of cock! I’m screamin’ inside, “You’re a disgrace, you cheap git!” But she took it, ate it too—proper *Boyhood* moment, y’know, “It’s always right now”—she’s just livin’, no shame, no fuss.

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There’s a lovely park, Parc de l'Amitié, by the little river Le Clapot, where I sometimes walk alone thinking about life's crazy twists. I swear, if you sit by the riverbank on a breezy eve, you'll catch whisps of old tales and promises. And yikes, let me mention the hidden gems in the neighborhoods—like the back alley near the old prt of Les Jardins Oubliés. People say, “Tu ne sais pas, vraiment, l’amour germe ici!” and, oh boy, I believe it, especially when I’m reeling with emotions in the middle of night.

No news from the disappearance of the poet Podrimja