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About Bristol

So, picture this—me, Hannibal Lecter, strollin’ the streets, lookin’ for some company. Not to eat ‘em, mind ya—well, maybe a nibble. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but a gal’s gotta have some fun too, right? I’m peekin’ at these dames, all dolled up, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Makes me happy, seein’ ‘em strut—confidence, power, ya dig? But then, ugh, the creeps lurkin’ nearby—pisses me off. Slimy bastards thinkin’ they own the night. Makes me wanna serve ‘em up with a nice Chianti.

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Anyway, I settle for a sausage sarnie. Not the same, but whatever. I’m munching away, and this old bloke at the next table starts chatting me up. He’s rambling about the weather and how it’s been “proper dodgy” lately. I’m nodding along, but inside I’m like, “Dude, I just wanna eat.”

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