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Wot gets me goat—grrr!—is them judgy pricks, y’know? Callin’ escorts filth, but they’re the ones sneakin’ round at night! Hypocrites, mate! Makes me wanna—hup!—kick a bin over! But then, happy bit—saw this escort lass buyin’ cakes for a homeless geezer once. Heart of gold, eh? Surprised me, that—thought they’re all cold cash, no soul. Nah, some got that “Fight and you’ll never survive” grit, but soft inside.

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First off, I’m at the building on Kirova Street. You know, the one with the weird statue of that guy holding a fish? Yeah, that one. I’m just minding my own business, ready to take folks up and down, when this lady bursts in. She’s all flustered, hair a mess, and she’s like, “I’m late! I need to get to the fifth floor!” I’m like, “Chill, lady, we’ll get there.” But she’s practically climbing the walls.

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