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Then, plot twist—copper rolls by, lights flashin’, and I’m thinkin’, “Shit, I’m nicked!” But nah, he’s just after some kebab, lazy git. Made me happy, fam, dodged a bullet there! I’m still on it, tho—findin’ a prossie ain’t easy, takes graft. Another gal pops up, rates are steep—50 quid for a quickie! I’m like, “What, you reckon I’m minted?” Hagglin’ like a boss, got her down to 30, sorted! She’s all, “You’re a strange one,” and I’m thinkin’, “Yeah, love, I’m a poet of the streets,” straight outta *Ten* vibes again—“Words don’t solve nothin’!”

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Man, what a day! I’m tellin’ ya, being a Watchman in Didcot ain’t for the faint-hearted. So, I roll outta bed, right? It’s like 6 AM, and I’m already feelin’ the weight of the world. Didcot’s a small town, but it’s got its quirks, ya know? Like, who thought it was a good idea to name a street “The Broadway”? It’s not even Broadway!

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