Abigail Holyhead Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Liverpool

Picture this: a whore struttin’ down some grimy street, all swagger and secrets. Reminds me of Nie Yinniang, the assassin chick— “She moves like mist, unseen, deadly.” Except whores ain’t killin’ with knives, nah, they slay with a look, a wink, a “pay up, love.” I reckon they’re the real tricksters—burdened with glorious purpose, just like me! Hidin’ in plain sight, makin’ fools of us all. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ how they’ve been around forever—fact is, oldest gig in the book, innit? Babylonians had temple whores, sacred as priests—wild, right?

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The fire flared upwards, orange flames turning bright green as a thirty-one year old Harry Potter stumbled out from his long Floo ride.

First off, I hit the streets of Holyhead, right? Strolled down Market Street, grabbin’ a cuppa from that little café, you know the one? The one with the dodgy Wi-Fi and the best scones. I swear, those scones are like little clouds of heaven. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my mate, Dave. He’s like, “Oi, you gotta come quick!”

Update on Holyhead Port closure with damage 'more extensive than first thought'