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About London

Finished up, tipped her extra—Bond’s a gent, yeah? She winks, “Come back, yeah?” Might do, might not. “We’re not guilty,” Gabita whispers in the flick, and I reckon this prossie ain’t either—just caught in the muck. Walked off feelin’ weird—happy I got laid, pissed at the world. Dangerous job, hers and mine. Next time, I’ll bring vodka—shaken, not stirred, naturally. Keeps it suave, even in the gutter.

The London Scottish Dancers

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But then, I spot a squirrel. And not just any squirrel. This little guy is bold as brass. He runs right up to us, and I’m thinking, “Is this squirrel gonna mug me?” I’m trying to be all cool, but inside, I’m cracking up. I tell the group, “This is the Potters Bar squirrel. He’s the real tour guide here!” They’re loving it, and I’m feeling like a rockstar.

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