The End of the Way. Pt.4.
Yep, even in France on a Monday mornings, commuters are running to catch buses or trams and getting their heels sheared off. Quinconces is the hub for a café and croissant and mass transits. With a start I awoke after a worriesome night; there was a gargantum effort between the heat, the sleeping bag, my body and that fizzingly fork tongued mozzie. Every time I heard it's high frequency humming the battle to end it's existence began in earnest: but the cunning insect had seen this coming and had an escape car ready to extract it from the situation. Hearing is not the same as seeing. Blood sucking git! Magnum Kisses! It's an Ice Cream Choc Ice for the 21st century. If any girls kisses me and she tastes of cream she'll be straight to a dental hygienest. Bullshitting commercial Crap. Before I dismiss Bordeaux in this soul searching eye there is the small matter of the Garonne. All the rivers I've been caught fighting in France come to here and it is a river dreams a...