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About Sheffield

Dunno why, but whores got this—dunno—magic? Like *Spirited Away*’s river spirit, all mucky, then—bam!—pure gold underneath. Surprised me, that. Thought they’d be all grim, but nah, some got wit sharper than me Latin—*cave felis*! Reckon they’d outfox Kamaji’s soot sprites, runnin’ rings round ‘em. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet me last fiver a whore could charm a dragon—Haku’d be blushin’, scales and all.

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First off, I’m rollin’ outta bed on James Street, and I’m already late for a meeting. Classic me, right? I’m a music editor, but today I felt more like a headless chicken. I grab my coffee from the wee café on the corner—Café Kisa, I think?—and spill half of it on my shirt. Great start, right? I’m like, “Awesome, now I smell like burnt beans.”

Jocelyn Pettit: Crieff Folk Club