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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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Anyway, I finally make it to my workshop on Church Street. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with the smell of wood shavings and metal. I love it. But today? Today was a different beast. I’m workin’ on this fancy stove for some posh family in Castle Street. They want it to be all shiny and stuff. I’m like, “Dude, it’s a stove, not a trophy!” But whatever, I’m a pro, right?

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