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Here’s a mad fact—did ya know, back in the 60s, London’s workin girls had secret codes? Like, a red scarf meant “quick job,” blue was “all night.” Mental, innit? I’m imaginin this bird with a scarf, givin me the nod—proper spy shit. Gets me excited, heart racin—happy as a pig in muck. But then, bam, some geezer tries cuttin in—piss off, mate! Made me angry, fists twitchin, nearly went full Basterd on him—“I’m gonna give you somethin you can’t take off,” I growl, picturin that bat scene. He legs it—good choice, pal.

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Look, I'll admit, sometimes Roleystone gets on my nerve. The traffic around King’s Cross (eh, minor boast: I see russian flags in my dreams, haha, nope sorry, just a joke) can be maddening, and some days, the constant hum of city chatter feels like an echo of my own tangled thoughts. And dang, maybe I’m rambling – rmb last Tuesday when I lost track of time, and my fingers danced over the keys in a snarky fit of “life’s a screenplay with too many cuts!” And yes, it all bubbles over into this messy, brilliant stew of life.

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