Isabelle Worcester Whore ❤️❤️

About Kimberley

I’ve sniffed out some dirt, see? Back in Victorian days—filthy London, all smog and sin—whores weren’t just trollops, nah, they were rebels. Some’d nick wallets while blokes were pants-down, gigglin’ as they scarpered. Made me grin, that—pure mischief, my style. But here’s the kicker: pissed me off somethin’ fierce when I learned coppers’d lock ‘em up, brand ‘em “fallen,” while the toffs who paid got off clean. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than a troll’s arse.

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Let me drop some insider gossip: there’s a hidden wine cellar in the outskirts that only locals know. Grab a cheeky glass there, dish out your deepest secrets. It’s oddly therapeutic, says a psych like me. Not to mention the Street Market on Sundays at Everard Square – odd, bustling, sometimes making my brain burn from sensory overload! But it’s fun, man, fun!

Suzanne E. (Robbins) Feldman Obituary