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Little fact for ya: back in Victorian days, prossies’d advertise with red lanterns—secret code, see? Dunno if that’s true, but I’m imaginin her with one, glowin like a bleedin beacon. “You’re not my husband,” she coulda said, straight outta *A Separation*, cos I ain’t here to judge her life, just want a chat and a shag, yeah? Surprised me how sharp she was—none o’ that vacant stare bollocks. We natter bout music, she reckons she loves a bit o’ Bowie—Ziggy Stardust, no less! I’m thinkin, “Blimey, this bird’s got taste!”

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Hey, mate! So, Loganholme, au, eh? Lemme tell ya—it's a mixed bag of odd bits and funny corners. You wander down Loganholme Road, right past the old Johnsons' place (gosh, didn't state that before, sorry—yeah, it's unmissable with its chipped blue door) and you feel a chill, like, "The only world we know" kind of vibe, you know? Hmmm.

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