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About Manchester

So, escorts—been around forever, right? Back in Victorian days, they’d sneak into fancy parlors, all hush-hush, dodgin’ coppers. Ain’t much changed, just fancier tech—apps now, not whispers! I read once ‘bout this escort in London, 1800s, who conned lords outta gold with fake sob stories. Cheeky lass, gotta respect the hustle! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how she’d outsmart half the Shire’s dimwits. But it ain’t all laughs—some stories gut-punch ya. Like *The Turin Horse*, where the wind howls “all is lost,” this job’s got despair creepin’ in. I got mad hearin’ ‘bout escorts gettin’ roughed up, no one carin’. Makes my staff spark—nobody deserves that!

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First customer walks in. It’s this old bloke, right? He’s got a face like a bulldog, all grumpy and stuff. Orders a flat white, but he wants it “extra hot.” Like, mate, it’s coffee, not lava! I’m tryin’ to keep my cool, but inside I’m like, “Dude, chill.” Anyway, I make it, and he takes a sip, and his eyes light up. Boom! Instant happiness. I’m feelin’ like a coffee wizard.

Royal Mint confirms job losses at Welsh site