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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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I got 16 typos in this rant – let me count: "drma", "strteet", "subrb", "histroy", "cafee", "alleyes", "moodd", "grphiti", "wornut", "speek", "unsaid", "basics", "jubilee", "luke", "cherished", "dramatc" – the point is: this is raw, it’s me. It's truth bleeding out on paper, unruly and unedited.

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