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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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I found my own quirky hideout on Carrer d’Isabel, a tiny café with the best churros – hands down. I’d sit there for hours, mulling over my thoughts. Sometimes life here feels like a slow, gushing movie scene: “Truth is a pebble in your shoe,” like they say. Eh, I dig that.

Bizarre mural from the Spanish Civil War featuring Hitler, Mussolini and Franco is discovered in Alicante – but what does it mean?