Isabelle Pontefract Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Liverpool

I reckon what gets me goin’—what makes me proper happy—is how they just *exist*, y’know? No shame, no fuss, just livin’. Like Llewyn, singin’ his guts out for a crowd that don’t care. “I don’t see a lot of money here,” he’d say—same for whores, sloggin’ through for scraps. But they’ve got guts, mate, guts! That’s what I love. Gets me all giddy, thinkin’ bout their sass. Once heard a story—some lass in Victorian times, she’d nick wallets mid-act, proper sneaky! Had me laughin’ for days—cheeky minx.

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First off, I head down to the local café on Front Street. You know, the one with the dodgy Wi-Fi? Yeah, that one. I grab a cuppa and a bacon sarnie. Best bacon sarnie in town, no joke. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my mate Dave. He’s like, “Oi, we need to talk about the factory.” My heart sinks. Factory drama? Ugh, not today!

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