Megan Emmerhout Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Breda

So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

Drank, drugs en prostitutie: Emmer buurt zucht kwart eeuw onder overlast huurpanden

Finally, I finish the reports. I send them off, and I’m like, “Phew, done!” But then, I realize I forgot to eat lunch. Great. So, I grab a quick bite at this little café on the corner of the Markt. The coffee there? To die for. Seriously, I could swim in it.