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Trackin’ prostitutes, it’s messy—cops don’t care much, that’s a fact. Most folks think it’s all glitz, like movies, but nah, it’s sad, raw, like a bad perm. I’m diggin’ through dives, askin’ questions, gettin’ glares. One time, this bouncer—he’s huge, like a human Duff can—tells me ‘bout “stroll zones.” That’s where gals walk, same spots since forever! Little-known stuff, right? I’m like, *“Hmm… history in high heels!”*

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So, I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my coffee, and I see this busker outside. He’s playin’ “Wonderwall” on a ukulele. I mean, c’mon, dude! Really? But then, I can’t help it. I start tappin’ my foot. The vibe’s infectious, ya know? I toss him a couple of quid. He looks surprised, like I just handed him a gold bar or somethin’.

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