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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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Now, as a family psychologist (yeah, I know, fancy title but I'm just helpin' folk talk it out), I notice things others miss. Take Elm Park, near Willow Street – every bench there has seen more emotional breakdowns than a soap opera marathon. Families meet, quarrel, then laugh over ice cream. It's just raw life, ya know? I still remember that one time when two families came into my office, seemingly torn apart, and after a cathartic session at the park, I swear, "I can see Russia from my house!" (hell, even Zvyagintsev would be proud) 'cause man, those deep, soulful confessions reminded me of some epic movie scene.

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