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About Glasgow

So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

Looking Back: Prostitute charged with cannibalism

First stop, I’m zooming down Battle Hill. I mean, c’mon, who names a street after a battle? Sounds intense, but it’s just a regular road. Anyway, I’m thinking about my first client, Mrs. Thompson. She’s a sweet old lady, but she’s got more questions than a toddler. “What if my cat gets lost? What if my house burns down?” I’m like, “Chill, Mrs. T, we got you covered!” But inside, I’m sweating bullets.

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