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About Winterthur

Here I am, mates, David Attenborough style, narratin’ the wild world of the prossie—calm, rhythmic, like I’m whisperin’ ‘bout a rare bird. Picture this: a street corner, neon lights flickerin’, and there she is, bold as a peacock, struttin’ her stuff. “I can’t remember to forget you,” I mutter, thinkin’ of *Memento*, ‘cause this life’s a puzzle, innit? She’s out there, hustlin’, a proper survivor in this urban jungle. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies kept coded diaries? Little secrets scribbled, hidin’ their trade from coppers—crafty, eh?