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So, here’s the deal—I’m walkin’ downtown, late night, city buzzin’. Neon lights flashin’, horns honkin’, smells like hot dogs and regret. I’m thinkin’, who’s out here? Who’s workin’ the corners? You don’t just trip over ‘em, nah. Gotta know the spots—alleys, shady bars, maybe some sketchy app nowadays. Back in my day, it was word’a mouth, whispers like, “Go see Candy on 5th.” Little known fact—prostitutes used to leave coded ads in newspapers! “Roses for sale,” my ass—everyone knew the game.

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After that, I’m back to the furs. I’m sewing, stitching, and cursing under my breath. I swear, if I have to deal with one more angry customer, I’m gonna lose it. But then, I get a call from my sister. She’s like, “You won’t believe who I saw at the Finglas Village Centre!” I’m like, “Who? The ghost of Finglas past?” Turns out, it’s some local celeb. I’m like, “Great, now I’m missing out on the Finglas gossip.”

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