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Precious, she’s a riddle, ain’t she? Sells skin, but who’s buyin’? Dirty blokes, lonely sods—makes me mad! Why’s it gotta be her, eh? Hiss! Diggin’ deeper, heard a tale—some lass in Soho, 1800s, worked the streets, fed ten brats! Ten! Proper hero, that one—whore with a heart, huh? Beats washin’ dishes, I reckon. Still, stinks o’ desperation, don’t it? “This is my life, my one time!”—Monty’d scream that at her, I bet.

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After the fire drill (which was a false alarm, of course), I’m trying to get back to my lecture. But then I bump into this old dude named Barry. He’s a local legend, apparently. He starts telling me about the history of Claudelands, and I’m like, “Dude, I’m kinda busy.” But he’s so passionate, I can’t help but listen. He talks about the Claudelands Event Centre and how it’s the hub of the community. I’m thinking, “This guy should be teaching, not me!”

Hamilton's bridges ageing well