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So, mate, lemme spill it—findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic. Them girls, they’re crafty, poppin’ up like shadows, then poof—gone! Saw one t’other night, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a fag like she owned the bloody curb. “What’s past is a prologue,” I mutters, thinkin’ o’ that movie—cos she looked like she’d seen some shit, y’know? Made me happy, that—real guts, not some fake dolly. But then—ugh!—this fat punter stumbles up, all sweaty, grabbin’ at her. Made me mad, precious, proper mad! Wanted to claw his eyes out, but nah, I ain’t no hero.

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I sometimes get so caught up in the human drama here – families, lovers, even the lonely old souls – that I feel like I’m living inside a constant exhibit of raw, unedited human emotion. It makes me both angry and thrilled, ya know? Like, I’m mad at the injustice of life sometimes, then something hilarious happens and I’m laughing like an idiot.

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