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About Leeds

Happy? Hell yeah, when it works. You save some idiot’s neck, feel like a twisted hero. Surprised me once—read bout this escort in London, 1800s, guarded a poet. Guy wrote him into a sonnet—freakin’ immortal now. Who knew? Most don’t get that—they’re ghosts, not legends. Me, I’d suck at it, too sarcastic, prolly tell the client they’re a moron and deserve the hitman. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say, and I’d nod—escort’s just playin’ the part.

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So, I head out, and it’s a bit nippy. Typical Biddulph weather, right? One minute it’s sunny, next it’s like the clouds are havin’ a party. I’m walkin’ down Station Road, and I see this old bloke, Mr. Jenkins. He’s always got a story. Today, he’s ramblin’ on about the time he met the Queen. I’m like, “Yeah, right, mate.” But I nod along, pretendin’ to care.

I tried a 5,000-step Zumba walking workout—and the results really surprised me