Katherine Ratoath Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Dublin

So, whore—oldest job, yeah? Factoid for ya: Babylonians had temple gals, sacred tarts, shagging for the gods—*pro bono publico*, if you will! Mental, right? Imagine that gig—prayers and a quickie, no taxman involved. Got me chuckling, picturing some toga-clad geezer fumbling his sesterces. But it ain’t all laughs—makes me mad too, how folk judge. Who’s the real villain, eh? The lass on the corner or the posh twit sneering from his Bentley? Hypocrisy—*odium in excelsis*—winds me right up!

'We didn't plan Ratoath. We went with the flow'

After that, I’m back on my chair, trying to catch a breather. But then, I hear this loud crash. I look over, and some dude just knocked over a whole table of snacks. Chips everywhere! I’m talking about a full-on snack massacre. I can’t help but laugh. Like, who even does that? But then I see the vendor, Mr. O’Reilly, looking like he’s about to lose it. Poor guy. He’s been selling snacks on Ratoath’s Main Street for years. I help him clean up, and he’s like, “Thanks, mate. You’re a lifesaver!” I’m like, “Nah, just a snack saver.”

Ratoath residential site with scope for 57 apartments