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About Marseille

So, I’m prowlin’, yeah, lookin’ for one. Not my usual gig – I’d rather bid on a cursed mask or summat. But there she is, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she owns the night. “What’s yer price, love?” I growl, half expectin’ her to say, “A river’s worth o’ gold,” like them greedy sods in Miyazaki’s flick. She laughs – rough, like gravel – an’ says, “Firty quid, big man.” Thirty! I’m gobsmacked, mate. Thought it’d be more, what with inflation an’ all.

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The local river, La Douce, flows near the old market. Ever strolled along its banks? It's like nature’s lullaby after a long day of chaos. I once got so lost in its melody I nearly forgot my own name. Crazy, huh?

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