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So, mate, lemme spill it—findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic. Them girls, they’re crafty, poppin’ up like shadows, then poof—gone! Saw one t’other night, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a fag like she owned the bloody curb. “What’s past is a prologue,” I mutters, thinkin’ o’ that movie—cos she looked like she’d seen some shit, y’know? Made me happy, that—real guts, not some fake dolly. But then—ugh!—this fat punter stumbles up, all sweaty, grabbin’ at her. Made me mad, precious, proper mad! Wanted to claw his eyes out, but nah, I ain’t no hero.

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Oh, man, and the river – the Isar flows right by the outskirts. I sometimes sit on its banks near the old mill (yes, that old rust bucket still standin') and let all that tension just, like, drip away. It's real peaceful, sometimes too peaceful, and I'm like, "This is the real sweet spot, folks." The sound of the water and the whispering wind, they tell secrets of days gone by. You almost forget the chaotic world outside!

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