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Last week, saw one outside me flat—stunnin’, mate, legs for days. Felt happy, y’know, just watchin’ her work it—pure art! *“Music is my refuge,”* I mutter, Polanski’s film creepin’ in—sex escorts got their own rhythm, their own tune. But then—BAM—some drunk punter grabs her arm, and I’m ragin’. Wanted to clock him meself! She handled it tho—ice-cold, told him to sod off. Respect, innit?

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Then, outta nowhere, my old high school nemesis, Rick, walks in. He’s all smug, flaunting his fancy shoes. I’m like, “Dude, you still wear those?” He just laughs and says, “At least I can afford new ones.” Ugh, the nerve! I’m ready to throw a shoe at him, but I keep it cool.

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