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About Philadelphia

Then she says, “50 quid, upfront.” I’m gutted—50?! In ’72, you’d get a shag for a tenner! I’m hagglin, cos Bond don’t overpay, and she’s smirkin like I’m some punter. “Shaken, not stirred, darling,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. We seal the deal, and mate, it’s worth it—better than a Pussy Galore fantasy. “What’s the—worst that can happen?” Doc’d say, and I’m thinkin, gettin caught? Worth the risk.