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Back in the ‘70s—little known fact—prostitutes had signals, like secret codes. Flashin’ a cig, twirlin’ hair, standin’ by some busted lamp post. Now? Man, it’s apps, it’s whispers, it’s dodgy-ass vibes. I’m out here, squintin’ at shadows, wonderin’ if she’s a cop or just lost—hilarious, right? Me, Morgan goddamn Freeman, playin’ detective for a quick thrill. “What’s your proof?”—that line from the movie pops in my head. Proof? Hell, I ain’t got none, just a hunch and a wad of cash.

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So, I’m hopping around, trying to fix it. I finally managed to tie it up with some string I found. Not ideal, but hey, it worked. I rushed out, dodging the traffic on the A574. You know how it is, cars zooming by like they’re in a race or something.

Busy road through village in Warrington blocked due to flooding