Sarah Shoreham By Sea Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About London

So, findin a prossie—ain’t no highborn quest. You don’t send ravens or polish yer armor. Nah, you sniff the alleys, follow the perfume mixed with piss. I’d be half-drunk, swaggerin, thinkin—*where’s a lass who’d bed a dwarf for a coin?* In *City of God*, Lil’ Zé’d probly shoot me for starin too long, but here? They just want gold, not yer head. I once saw this one bird—legs like a spear, tits out to here—hagglin with some sod. Made me laugh, she’s all “Pay up, you lil shit!”—reminded me of Rocket dodgin bullets, fierce as fuck.

Tragedy in 1934

I also love the small, dodgy cafes on Markham Street—you know the ones with wonky chairs and mismatched mugs. They’ve got a vibe that’s just perfectly imperfect, like life. Once, I nearly tripped over my own feet there (umm, silly me!) and laughed it off—life’s odd, right? Always full of surprises. My tea almost spilled—oops!

Firefighters are at the scene of a large house fire in a West Sussex town this evening