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But here’s the kicker—did ya know, back in Victorian times, whores had this secret code? Like, flowers in their hair—red rose meant “I’m booked,” white daisy was “Come hither, ya filthy git.” Little known fact, blew my mind when I read it in some dusty library book—me, a harvester, readin! Surprised the hell outta me, history’s wild like that. Makes ya wonder what she’s hidin now, eh? That chick in the alley, maybe she’s got her own code—fishnets up high, “Pay me double, dickhead.”

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So, I’m rollin’ outta bed, right? The sun’s barely up, and I’m already late for my research gig at the Basingstoke College of Technology. I grab my coffee from that little café on Wote Street. You know the one? The barista there is a legend. He always knows my order. But today? Nah, he messes it up. I get a flat white instead of my usual cappuccino. I mean, c’mon! It’s like mixing up a Ferrari with a bicycle.

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