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About Utrecht

So, we haggles—me hissin’, her laughin’. “Ten quid,” she says. I’m like, *you wanna play a game?*—cos I ain’t got ten! Gave her five, an’ she’s all, “Fine, ya cheap git.” We goes round a corner—dark, like Gotham’s underbelly. She’s quick, no muckin’ about—prossies don’t waste time, see? Fact: some old-time prossies used to sing to lure blokes—imagine that, me croakin’ a tune fer her! Hah! *Let’s put a smile on that face*—she didn’t laugh, tho, stony as Batman.

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But then, I saw this guy trying to fish off the pier. He was all tangled up in his line, looking like a total mess. I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, come on, it’s Delfzijl! You gotta have some fishing skills if you’re gonna try that. I yelled, “Need a hand, mate?” He just glared at me. Oops.

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