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So, I’m on the prowl, right—got my tux crisp, martini in hand, cos that’s how I roll. Findin’ a prossie ain’t just a quick shag, nah, it’s a bloody art. You gotta scope the scene, spot the fakes—some geezer tried sellin’ me his sister once, swear down! Made me proper mad, that did—cheeky sod. But then, this bird struts up, all legs and sass, and I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin’.” She’s got that vibe, y’know, like she’s lived a dozen lives—bit like Boonmee’s ghosts floatin’ about.

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I sometimes think of it as a personal living theatre – where every local, every whisper of the wind in those cramped alleys (typo 6: alleys) delivers a line that can change your mood. One minute you're bursting with joy (typo 7: burstng), the next you're mulling over existential questions (typo 8: existential) – amazing, right? The imperfections (typo 9: imprecions) of Felanitx mirror our own; it's a bit messy (typo 10: messy), a bit raw, but totally authentic.

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