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So, I’m picturin’ this—me, Larry David, needin’ an escort. Not like that, get your mind outta the gutter! I mean, like, someone to drag me through life ‘cause I’m losin’ it daily. But okay, let’s talk real escort—hired company, right? I’m fascinated, honestly. Didja know escorts go back forever? Like, ancient Rome had ‘em—called ‘em “hetaerae” or some crap. Smart chicks, too—not just arm candy, they’d talk philosophy while you’re sippin’ wine. Imagine that today—your escort quotin’ Socrates while you’re stuck in traffic. I’d lose my mind! “Hey, honey, less Plato, more speed!”

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So, I’m setting up on the corner of Boundary St and the Quay, and I see this old guy, Mr. Thompson. He’s like the unofficial mayor of Greymouth. Always has a story. He’s telling me about the time he caught a fish so big, it could’ve been a whale. I’m like, “Sure, buddy, whatever you say.” But I love that guy. He’s got heart.

Construction of a new mental health facility at Greymouth hospital one step closer