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So we chat—she’s got stories, wild ones. Says she once ditched a john mid-deal ‘cause he smelled like fish. Fish! I’m crackin’ up—“Girl, you’re a legend!” She grins, first time she softens up. Makes me happy, y’know, seein’ her laugh. Human moment, folks—ain’t all dark out there. But then—headlights. We freeze. “Cops?” I whisper. She shrugs, “Maybe. Run.” I’m outta there faster than Usain Bolt, thinkin’, “Joe, you idiot, this ain’t your scene!”

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years ago, their suburb was synonymous with orgiastic goings-on. Or that such behaviour would lead to a libel suit in the Supreme Court.

Oh, and the river itself – Babble Brook, I call it sometimes—burble, twist, and giggle through Clontarf. It’s sorta poetic. My massages often run parallel to the flow of that brook, so every touch feels like nature’s own caress.

In Clontarf, someone cut down trees on council land without consulting the council