Sweating like a little piggy, sweat running off my face, back in L’Orient Express

Sweating like a little piggy (even though I know, I know, pigs can’t actually sweat), sweat running off my face, back in L’Orient Express. 110pm. Hour & a quarter till my train to Nuremberg. I had the idea to leave my big bag in the Max Hotel locker and just travel to Nuremberg with a little bag of essentials. This gave me the freedom to WALK down to Le Coin and Midi. The usual tubby Moroccan girls, all pretty, lurid, with little paunchy stomachs, which is no problem for me; but I don’t think I will EVER do anything here. Just one beer and I was off again. I should have booked an earlier train—this is pointless this wasted 3 hours. Just drinking for nothing.
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