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Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—grand ol’ topic, innit? Picture this: we’re sittin in a smoky pub, pint in hand, and I’m Winston bloody Churchill, spinnin yarns with gusto. Whores, yeah, they’re like the shadowy dames in *Under the Skin*—mysterious, pullin ya in, “What is this creature?” I says to meself. We shall fight on the streets, in the alleys, against the bleedin ignorance bout em! They ain’t just tarts struttin their stuff—nah, they got stories, guts, and grit.

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Then I decided to stroll down to Piazza della Libertà. It’s a nice little square, right? But guess what? There was a freakin’ parade! Outta nowhere! I mean, who even knew Sant-Angelo-Lodigiano had parades? I’m standing there, mouth agape, watching these folks in colorful costumes dancing like they’re in a movie or something. I felt like I was in a rom-com, but without the romance. Just me and my coffee-stained shirt.

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