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About Edmonton

So, I’m cruisin’ London—shaguar’s purrin’, shades on, feelin’ randy. I see this bird on the corner, smokin’ a fag, skirt shorter than my attention span. Reminds me of Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*—all rough edges, “You’re a little shit,” she’d say. I roll up, flash a grin—groovy, baby!—and she’s like, “Wot you want, posh boy?” Made me laugh, her sass! I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s got more balls than Blofeld!”

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Every corner sings its distinct song. And if you’re lucky, you might catch me ranting about life, blending snark with truth, like mixing a cocktail with too many spices. The city's charm is a bit rough, a bit snarky, but always honest. It got those hidden spots you won’t find in any brochure – like that hole in the wall diner on Rue des Poètes, where the coffee's as dark as my mood after a long shift.

The Noblewoman Marooned on an Island for Loving the Wrong Man