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About London

So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Ruby, alright? She’s workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like gunshots on pavement, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m thinkin’, man, she’s got guts—*guts*, y’know? Takes balls to strut out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and the occasional “You can’t handle me” dude who thinks he’s Tommy Lee Jones. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?”—that’s her life, every damn night, a gamble. And I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, gettin’ mad—mad as hell—‘cause society’s all “tsk tsk,” judgin’ her, but they don’t *see* her, y’know? They don’t see the hustle.

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First stop, the market on the main square. It’s buzzing! Fresh produce, flowers, and the smell of fried food. I’m starving. Grabbed a bacon butty from that little stall. Best in town, no contest. The guy behind the counter, Dave, always has a cheeky grin. “You look like you need this, mate!” he says. I mean, he’s not wrong.

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