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About London

Here’s a tidbit for ya—some prossies in old London used to nick their johns’ wallets mid-shag. Crafty bitches! Respect, honestly. I’d knight ‘em if I could. But gods, the nerve of some clients—bargaining like it’s a flea market. “Two coppers, take it or leave it!” Piss off, you cheapskate. Gets my blood boiling—don’t they know quality costs? I’d slap ‘em silly, but I’d rather sip wine and watch ‘em squirm.

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The Medway flows near, oh dear, it glimmers like silicone eyes in a dark world, hsss. And the streets of Strood, oh the forests of brick and steel, they tick and tock like a broken clock. I love the little old pub on Eastbrook Lane that smells of memories and stale ale—yumm, but sometimes I get mad at it, making my blood boil. Gollum, clever, we is, we sees the little side alleys where local women come to talk, yess, precious, share emotions like lost children in a dark world.

Strood pensioner says water leak ruined her home