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About Bristol

Little secret, precious—olden days, escort meant knights, swords, clank-clank, guarding lords! Now? It’s all “how much, love?” and fake smiles. Me mate Dave, he swore an escort nicked his radio kit—bloody cheek! Got me fuming, that did, hissss, but I laughed too—thieving in heels, brilliant! Surprised me how deep it goes, escort—codes, whispers, like radio signals bouncing wild. “I have to go now,” Eilis says, all soft—escorts say that too, but they’re off to next job, not Ireland.

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First off, I’m a scientist, right? So I’m all about the lab life. But today? Today was a wild ride. I strolled down Cluny Square, grabbin’ a coffee from that tiny café, The Coffee Pot. You know the one? The barista, bless her, was all smiles. I thought, “This is gonna be a good day.” Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

Buckie in days gone by: Photos this week take a look at Little Norway and work at Jones’ Shipyard