Rebecca King's Cross Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Manchester

So I’m peekin’ round, thinkin’, “Where’s these lasses at?” Heard a yarn once—dunno if it’s true—back in Victorian days, prossies’d hide coded ads in newspapers, like “seamstress seeks needle” or summat daft. Clever, eh? Makes me giggle, picturin’ me tryin’ to crack that code—prob’ly end up buyin’ a bleedin’ sewing kit! So I’m mumblin’ to meself, “Find a prostitute, find a prostitute,” when—BAM!—this bird in fishnets pops outta nowhere. “Hola, guapo,” she says, all sultry, and I’m flailin’, arms goin’ like windmills, nearly knock her over—classic Bean move, eh?

But then, BAM! A kid runs past, and the duck freaks out, quacking like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. I spill my coffee all over my jeans. Great. Just great. Now I look like I had a fight with a coffee pot. I’m fuming, but then I see the kid laughing. It’s infectious. I can’t help but chuckle too.

Here's what happened when I tried a £9 Scandi spa in central London