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Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I ask her price, she says 50 bucks. Fifty! For a quickie? Inflation’s a bitch, man. Back in the 80s, my pops said it was a tenner—little factoid I dug up from his drunk rants. She’s got this scar on her cheek, tiny, shaped like a crescent moon. “Got it from a john,” she says, shruggin. I’m pissed—some asshole cut her? But also, damn, she’s tough. Kinda hot.

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I get to the workshop on Grove Road, and it’s chaos. My mate Dave’s already there, swearing at a lathe that’s acting up. “Oi, mate! This thing’s possessed!” he yells. I can’t help but laugh. It’s always something with that machine. We spend the next hour trying to fix it, and I’m getting more and more frustrated. I mean, c’mon! It’s just a piece of metal, how hard can it be?

New Boston Spa play area opened