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Escort’s dodgy, yeah? Not cars, nah, people—hired mates for lonely sods or bigwigs needing arm candy. Me, I’ve wired up vans for ‘em once, hissss, tiny mics, sneaky cams—caught a geezer yelling, “I paid for quiet!” Made me cackle, it did! Gollum sees the muck, the glitter too—some escorts, they’re posh, all “I’m too good,” but others, rough as old boots, spitting mad. Reminds me of Eilis in “Brooklyn,” torn ‘twixt homes, “You’ll feel so homesick,” she’s told—escorts, they’re homesick for normal, I reckon.

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So, I’m feeling good, right? I decide to grab a coffee at this little café on Spon Street. It’s one of those hipster joints, you know? I order a flat white, and the barista looks at me like I just asked for a unicorn frappuccino. I’m like, “Dude, it’s just coffee!” Anyway, I sit down, and this old fella starts chatting me up. He’s telling me about the good ol’ days in Coventry. Apparently, he used to hang out at the old Coventry Market. I’m thinking, “Wow, you must be ancient!” But he’s got some great stories.

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