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Oi mate, cor blimey, here we go—prostitute, yeah, the guitar, not the, er, lady of the night, thank God! I’m Boris, strumming through life, bit of a wobbly riff, innit? Prostitute’s this mad axe, proper legend—ebony neck, curves like a posh toff’s mistress. Makes me think of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—y’know, Richie’s quiet brooding, plucking strings in that daft tent. “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow,” he says, dramatic sod—prostitute’s got that vibe, melancholic but bloody brilliant.

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Anna, who is from Romania, came to the Netherlands 10 years ago to work as a sex worker, renting a window in Amsterdam’s Red Light District (she uses a pseudonym to keep her .

Finally, the lights flicker back on, and I dive into this old ledger. It’s like a treasure map of the past. I’m flipping through pages, and I find this entry about a cheese festival from 1902. Can you believe it? A whole festival dedicated to cheese! I’m grinning like a kid in a candy store. I can almost smell the cheese.

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