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About Malmo

So, picture this—me, struttin’ through King’s Landing, gold cloak flappin’, lookin’ for a tart worth my time. Not these pox-ridden slags by the docks, stinkin’ of fish and despair. No, I need one with a *concierge* vibe, y’know? Like Monsieur Gustave, all “Lobby Boy!” smooth-talkin’, but she’s got tricks up her skirt. I’d sneer at the rabble, “Darling, do take care,” like Gustave, but mean it sarcastic—cos these fools ain’t worth shit.

Perspectives on family stories of Görlitz, Dachau, the Kindertransport and the Holocaust

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Then, I get a call from my buddy, Erik. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the beach!” I’m like, “I can’t! I’m stuck in archive hell!” But he’s persistent. “C’mon, man! There’s a beach volleyball tournament!” Now, I love volleyball. I’m torn.

IN PICTURES: Storm Babet batters Sweden