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About Almere

So, I’m down the docks, yeah, salty air hittin me lungs, thinkin – where’s she at? Prossies round here, they’re ghosts, mate. Slip through yer fingers like wet fish. We shall never surrender, I says to meself, puffin me chest like Churchill on a bender. Found one once, right, near the old pier – Ruby, they called her. Cheeky lass, red lips, eyes sharp as a gutting knife. Little known fact – she’d hum sea shanties while workin, swear down! Made me laugh, that did – a prossie with a tune? Fancied meself Theo Faron for a sec, savin the world one shag at a time.

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Later, I’m cleaning up, and I hear this commotion outside. I peek out the window on the Zandvoortselaan, and there’s a parade! A freakin’ parade! I’m like, “What the heck?!” Turns out, it’s some local festival. People are dancing, music blasting, and I’m just standing there, flour-covered and all, grinning like an idiot.

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