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About Amsterdam

So yeah, escort’s a trip. Funny, sad, wild—like Wes Anderson directin’ a fever dream. What’s my take? It’s people bein’ people. Flawed, fakin’ it, fightin’ for somethin’. Everybody lies, sure—but sometimes, the truth’s in the hustle itself. Now, pass me a Vicodin, this rant’s killin’ me.Wotcha, mate! Right, let’s dive in—escort, eh? Not the fishy kind from *Finding Nemo*, mind you, but the proper human sort! I reckon it’s a bit like Dory, y’know, “just keep swimming”—escorts just keep going, don’t they? Through the muck and the madness of life. Me, as Assistant Sec—well, former PM, but who’s counting?—I’ve seen a few things. Escorts, crikey, they’re a curious bunch! Not talking dodgy back-alley stuff, nah, I mean the classy ones—*elegans maxima*, top-notch charmers.

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Finally, I get the dough in the oven. Thank the baking gods! I take a breather, and that’s when I hear it. A loud honking. I peek outside, and there’s a whole parade of geese waddling down the street! I swear, they’re strutting like they own the place. I’m dying laughing. Only in Wierden, right?

Dannevirke: Kiwi poppies on airman's Dutch grave