Anastasia Ingleby Greenhow Whore ❤️

About Bristol

So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off!

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So, I keep walking, trying to shake off the footy drama. I head down to the Church Lane. The church is this old stone building, super pretty. I love the vibe there. But today, there’s a wedding! And it’s all fancy and stuff. I’m standing there, feeling a bit jealous, like, “Why can’t I have that?” But then I remember, I’m a Saver, not a spender.

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