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About Toulouse

Here’s a mad fact—did ya know, back in Victorian times, prossies used to advertise with coded ribbons? Red fer “I’m game,” blue fer “bit classy.” Mental, right? This one, tho, she don’t need ribbons—her swagger says it all. I’m half tempted to nick her style for meself, but nah, she’d clock that too. Anyway, we’re chattin, an I’m gettin proper into it—happy as a pig in muck. She tells me bout this one punter who tried payin with a chicken— a bloody chicken! I’m creasin, picturin it. “What’d ya do?” I ask. “Told him to cluck off,” she says. Genius.

Finally, I get my oysters. I’m feelin’ like a champ. But then, BAM! I step in a puddle. Not just any puddle, but the biggest, muddiest one ever. My shoes are ruined. I’m fuming. I mean, who even made that puddle? Was it the rain? Or some prankster? Ugh!

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