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I’m picturin her now, smokin a cig, leanin on a wall, smirkin at dumbasses who think they own her. “You’re all the same,” she’d say, voice low, like the wind in Anatolia’s hills. I’d ask her, slow, curious—Larry style—“Hey, doll, what’s the worst gig you ever took?” Bet she’d laugh, dark, say somethin twisted. Maybe some fat guy with a foot fetish—ha! Gross, but funny. She’s seen it all, man, ALL.

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Ah, Hazebrouck, my dear, what a marvellous little jumble of history, quirks, and secret hideaways! Picture this: strolling down Rue Victor Hugo—yes, that one!—where ancient charm meets modern whimsy. I mean, seriously, you can almost hear echoes of the past whispering "Salve, amici!" as you wander.

Shropshire family stuck in Spain