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About London

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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But then, out of nowhere, this old lady comes up to me. She’s got this wild hair and a big smile. “You look like you need a cuppa!” she says. I’m like, “You read my mind!” So, she drags me to this little tea shop on the corner of Billinge Road. It’s cozy, and the tea is divine. We chat about everything—her cats, my job, the weather. She’s a hoot!

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