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About Mons

Angry? Yeh, gets me mad when they rip ya off—50 quid for nothin’, precious gone! Happy tho, when ya find a good one—chatty, not judgy, like a twisted lil’ friend. Surprised me once, this prossie knew opera—sang Puccini, voice all shaky but real. “What’s this life for?” I mutters, like Jep ponderin’ his Rome mess.

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I ain't perfect, I've made so many missteps; errs, I think I made about, ye know, fifteen typos already – so many screwy words, but who cares when yer living life in the moment, right? Sometimes I walk through the narrow lanes, thinking, "Everything is soft and warm, my precious, everything’s warm as blue." The light at dusk, oh, it paints the town in shades of that deep blue love, so intense, so real, a true treasure like no other.

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