Evelyn King's Lynn Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About London

She’s a battler, right, works the corners near Trafalgar Square—none o’ that posh Mayfair nonsense. Got a name, let’s call her Rosie, tho she don’t tell no one. Face like a weary lioness, eyes sharp as bayonets! “Purity is a treasure,” like they say in *Moolaadé*, but Rosie’s purity’s in her guts, not her knickers. Been at it since she were 16—bloody hell, 16!—cos her ol’ man pissed off and mum drank the rent. Little known fact: she once nicked a copper’s helmet mid-shag, kept it as a trophy! Swear down, saw it meself, sittin on her shelf like a crown.

Anyway, I’m sippin’ my drink, and I see this old bloke, right? He’s just standin’ there, lookin’ lost. Turns out he’s tryin’ to find the bus station. I’m like, “Mate, it’s just down the road, past the Tuesday Market Place.” But he’s all confused, bless him. So, I end up walkin’ him there.

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