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About London

Last week, I’m tailin’ this lead—shady alley, smells like regret. I’m mutterin’, *“Oh, Marge, why this job?”* Suddenly, this gal, she’s standin’ there, all sparkly skirt, eyes like she’s seen too much. I’m thinkin’, *“Her soul’s driftin’ like Boonmee’s jungle spirits!”* I ask her name—Candy, she says. Candy! Ha, like that’s real! I’m all, “Hmm… sugar-coated lies!” Got me chucklin’—these names, always so fake, like Bart’s homework excuses.

First off, I’m a financial advisor, right? So, I’m usually all about numbers and spreadsheets. But today? Today was a rollercoaster. I grabbed my coffee from that little café on High Street—best flat whites in town, no joke. I’m chugging it down, and boom! My phone buzzes. Client drama. Classic.

Five criminals at North Staffordshire magistrates this week