Anna Killester Whore ❤️❤️

About Dublin

Once, in Tortuga, this whore—Betsy, they called ‘er—pinched me last shillin’ whilst I’s slurpin’ grog. Made me mad as a storm-tossed sea! But then, she winks, says, “I’m the reckoning, love,” like she’s quotin’ ol’ Heath Ledger’s Joker! Couldn’t stay cross—laughed me arse off, I did. She’s got guts, y’see, an’ that’s rare as a sober pirate. Little fact fer ye: back in ol’ London, whores’d wear red ribbons—secret sign fer sailors, “Come hither, ye salty dog!” Ain’t that a hoot?

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I walk in, and it’s packed. The smell of beer and chips hits me like a wall. I scan the room, and there he is, laughing it up with his buddies. I can’t believe this guy! I march over, and he looks at me like a deer in headlights.

From ‘country’ living and horse-drawn milk floats, to modern city suburb – new book charts the history of Killester