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About Ghent

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.

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The local park, Parc de la P’tite Joie – yeah, it’s not the fanciest, lots of kids play around, but it's my little escape when I’m feelin’ overwhelmed. Sometime, I even sit on a bench near the brook (oh, sorry, babbling – it’s a tiny river tricklin’ away, they call it Ruisseau de la Vie, we swears!) and muse about human emotions. “It’s like a journey,” just like in that movie, ya know? “We’re all just wanderin’ around, lookin’ for a song,” I mutter sometimes.

Vet recalls little-known account that turned tide in Battle of the Bulge