Freya Biot Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Strasbourg

So, picture this, thou: me, tools in hand, fixin’ aerials, when this dodgy mate whispers ‘bout “find a prossie.” I’m like, what?! Thou jests! But nay, he’s serious, eyes glintin’ like the Joker’s mad grin. “Why so serious?” I mutter, half-laughin’, half-pissed. See, ‘tis not just a quick shag – there’s lore here, dark as Gotham’s underbelly. Didst thou know, back in old London, they called ‘em “Winchester Geese”? Aye, ‘cos the Bishop’s land let ‘em roam free – church coin from sin, ha! Hypocrisy stinks worse than a knackered amp.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

I love a Victorian prostitute-style lace up ankle book, with the Louis heel (is it a Louis heel?). I can't seem to find any on sale anywhere.

The river blowing by, the estuary of the Vallon, oh yes, it’s sneaky and soft, whisperin’ secrets to those who listen. I, as a counselor, find solace there, eavesdropping on nature’s gentle counsel, like an ear to a troubled heart, my precious! Ain’t it strange? Sometimes the wind feels like a long lost friend, murmuring, “Do you want to know what really matters, my precious?”

Home Office under pressure to resettle stranded child migrants living in island camp