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So, I’m prowlin’, yeah, lookin’ for one. Not my usual gig – I’d rather bid on a cursed mask or summat. But there she is, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she owns the night. “What’s yer price, love?” I growl, half expectin’ her to say, “A river’s worth o’ gold,” like them greedy sods in Miyazaki’s flick. She laughs – rough, like gravel – an’ says, “Firty quid, big man.” Thirty! I’m gobsmacked, mate. Thought it’d be more, what with inflation an’ all.

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So, we decided to hit up the Broadfield Tavern. I needed a pint after that breakfast disaster. We walked down to the pub, and I swear, the vibe was lit. Everyone was laughin’, and the footie was on. I felt my mood liftin’. But then, the bartender spilled a whole tray of drinks. Like, seriously? I was just about to order!

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