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I’m wandering, half-pissed, thinking, “This is grim.” Then—bam!—this fit one, all legs, smirks at me. “Fancy a go, love?” she says. I’m like, “Christ, you’re bold!” Heart’s racing, not cos I’m horny, but cos it’s surreal. Reminds me of that *Yi Yi* line, “Why’s life so loud?” Cos it bloody is! She’s chatting me up, says she’s called Jade—probably fake, who cares? Tells me she once shagged a copper to dodge a fine. Little fact for ya—cops’ve been punters forever. Dirty sods.

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Then there’s the local hangout – Beaverville neighborhood. No, seriously – it’s grungy, it’s gritty, but it’s full of heart. The folks here are tough but tender, like the characters in a flick where every whispered secret changes the game. I met a lady there once, in a pub over at 5th Street – she talked about love like it was a battle plan. Sweet, raw, and damn honest. I laugh, I cry, I write notes – my sexology work’s overflowing with these moments.

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