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Oi mate, gather round, listen up! Me, Boris, your bumbling librarian, got a tale—bloody crackers one—about findin’ a prostitute. Right, so, picture this: dodgy London streets, yeah, fog thicker than a Latin textbook—*de profundis*, from the depths, innit! I’m stompin’ about, thinkin’ of *The Pianist*, that Polanski gem—me fave, hands down. That poor sod Władysław Szpilman, hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys like his life depended on it. “I’m alive, alive!” he’d whisper—makes me weepy, it does.

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But then, the day takes a turn. I get a call from a client. They’re freaking out about their career path. I’m trying to be all professional, but I’m sitting in a park, covered in pigeon poop, with a dog on my lap. I’m like, “How do I sound serious right now?” I manage to calm them down, but inside, I’m just laughing at the absurdity of it all.

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