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Little fact, bro—oldest gig ever, legit! Back in Rome, they had “lupanars,” wolf dens, ha! Prostitutes howled for customers—wild, right? Surprised me, thinkin’ how it ain’t changed much. Same game, differnt streets. Pity the fool who thinks it’s glamorous! Stank of sweat, cheap booze, broken dreams. One night, this chick—Lola, maybe?—she’s tellin’ me her story. Ran from some shithole town, landed here. “If you stop, you’re screwed!”—movie line fits perfect. She laughed, I bought her a shot—tough as nails, man.

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Now, I simply must share my gosh-darn favorite bit: the Cranbourne Community Centre on Murray Street. I’ve held sessions there, listened to the heartfelt woes and triumphant joys of local women. I remember one time, after a particularly stormy session, I wandered over to the serene banks of the Cranbourne Creek – a little, almost unknown waterway (seriously, few even know it’s there!). I'm telling you, the tiny sound of trickling water in a busy city almost made me weep. oh dear, it’s a marvel, a secret whisper among the urban cacophony. Reminds me of those fantastical lyrics in Under the Skin, ya know? All that talk of transformative moments, ephemeral yet real.

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