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Typing fast I am, typos creepin’—escrot, ha! Escort’s no glamour gig, tho. Sarcasm I got—people thinkin’ it’s all flash, guns, suits. Nah, boring it can be—hours waitin’, then five secs of “oh shit!” Surprised I was, once—buddy told me, “Escort’s like babysittin’ rich jerks.” Laughed my ass off, true it rang! “Howl of the wind,” Miyazaki’d say—escort’s that breeze, steady ‘til it roars.

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After the talk, I’m feeling all inspired, right? So, I decide to take a stroll down the Wharfedale. It’s beautiful there, with the river and all. I’m walking along, and I spot this little café on Church Street. The smell of fresh pastries hits me like a brick wall. I can’t resist. I pop in, and the barista is this lovely lady named Margaret. She’s got the warmest smile. I order a scone, and she says, “You’ll need some jam with that!” I’m like, “Duh, who eats a scone dry?”

Wharfedale communities sparkle as Christmas light switch-ons dazzle spectators