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So, findin’ a prossie, right? Ain’t just ‘bout coins clinkin’. Nah, it’s a dance, a game! Ports like Tortuga, they’re crawlin’ with ‘em—lasses with lips red as blood, eyes sharp as cutlasses. Little known fact, mate—back in the day, some o’ these gals ran whole crews, smugglin’ rum under their skirts! True story, swear on me compass! Got me laughin’—imagine that, a prossie captain, orderin’ me ‘round! “You wanna die?” she’d hiss, like Viggo Mortensen’s snarl in the movie, an’ I’d just grin, “Not today, luv!”

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But then, outta nowhere, this group of tourists came in. They were loud, obnoxious, and totally clueless about French culture. I mean, come on! They were trying to order in English, and the poor barista was struggling. I felt my blood boil. Like, learn a few words, people! It’s not that hard. I almost jumped in to help, but then I thought, nah, let them flounder.

A history of town twinning in Hebden Royd, by Jane Jackson