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About Recife

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

So you want to book a sex worker?

Oh, and another catch – the tiny river, Rio dos Sonhos. Not much fancy, but its banks are lined with tired benches and graffiti that screams local art and rebellion. I once sat there, ranting about the absurdities of dating apps and my life’s wasted potential. Yup, even the river seems to say, "You wanna talk about shame? Bring it on!" And, honestly, ain't that a bit like life here?

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