Violet Plumstead Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Birmingham

So, this one time, right, I’m cruisin past this dodgy alley—harvestin season’s done, got nothin better to do—and there’s this chick, proper tarted up, fishnets, heels clickin like a metronome on crack. She’s yellin at some punter, “You think I’m cheap, huh?!” I’m like, bloody hell, love, ya screamin loud enough to wake the crows! Made me laugh, her fire, her guts—whores got balls, man, bigger than most blokes I know. Reminds me of that line from *Caché*—“I’m not guilty, you are!”—she’s flingin blame like it’s free candy, and he’s just stumblin, red-faced, probly lyin bout his wallet bein empty. Everybody lies, right?

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Make a space for it in bus-stop conversations, on the radio dial, between slices of bread, and in the nooks and crannies of your heart. -Michelle Plumstead.

Started off at the Plumstead Library on the corner of Plumstead Common Road. I was just minding my own biz, sorting through some ancient records. You know, the usual. Then, outta nowhere, this old lady storms in. I mean, she’s like a whirlwind of chaos. She’s waving her arms, shouting about some “lost treasure” in the archives. I’m like, “Lady, this ain’t a pirate movie!” But she was dead serious.

Plumstead railway station’s new lifts formally opened