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About Nantes

But then you get the creeps, don’t ya? The punters—sweaty, baldin’ tossers who reckon they’re God’s gift. “I’m a real man,” they’d slur, like in the film—*“I’m a gangster, a free man!”*—but nah, mate, you’re just a sad sack with a fiver. Makes me angry, that does, the entitlement. I’d wanna scream, “Oi, you wanker, she’s not your bloody therapist!” Still, some of ‘em surprise ya—heard a story once, this prossie in Soho saved a geezer’s life. He was chokin’ on a kebab, she Heimliched him—hero stuff! Didn’t expect that, did I? Nearly pissed myself laughin’ thinkin’ bout it.

SOME OF OUR PARTNERS & FUNDERS

So, I woke up late, as usual. My alarm? Yeah, it decided to take a day off. I jumped outta bed, threw on whatever I could find. You know how it is. Rushed outta my apartment on Rue de la République, coffee in hand, looking like a hot mess.

Pioneering special needs teacher gets a blue plaque