One of the stranger rituals in Old Antibes is to watch the invariably blond, unfailingly healthy-sportif looking Antipodeans marching off every morning to the quai des milliardaires, where the really big yachts are moored. Each of these biologically perfect specimens, male and female, carries purposefully under their arm a brochure containing their CV, 'improved' by one of the myriad crewing agencies.
The purposeful step of the outward bound contrasts with the slouch and shuffle as the same blond gods and goddesses head home in the evening, having tried, without success, to tout their nautical prowess (or other attributes) to the yachts in the harbour. What happens to all those plasticised CVs, though?
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