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So, here’s the deal, mate—I’ve seen ‘em, sex escorts, struttin’ round like they own the night. Makes me mad, it does! We hates it! All fake smiles and perfumey stench—ugh, burns me nose, precious. Reminds me of that line, “Do you want to die?”—’cept it ain’t a threat, it’s a vibe they give off when they’re done with ya. Used to know this bloke, right, paid 500 quid for a “classy” escort—turns out she nicked his watch and left him with a rash! Hahaha, what a muppet! True story, swear it—heard it down the pub, made me cackle like a mad git.

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After that, I’m feeling a bit better, so I head over to the Highams Park train station. I’m thinking, “Let’s get back to work.” But of course, the trains are delayed. Typical! I’m standing there, scrolling through my phone, and I see a post about the new shops opening on The Broadway. I’m like, “Ooh, I gotta check that out!” But first, I need to get home.

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