Isabelle Macclesfield Prostitute ❤️

About London

Oi, listen up, you lot! Me, Cersei Lannister, cold as ice, reckon prostitutes got a raw deal. Watched “12 Years a Slave” – bloody hell, that flick’s my fave, hits hard. “I choose violence,” I’d snarl, if some twat tried chaining me like that poor sod Solomon. Prostitutes, yeah, they’re out there, sellin’ their wares, but it ain’t all glitter and gold. Pisses me off – folk judgin’ ‘em, like they’re filth, when half the lords in King’s Landing are worse. Hypocrites, all of ‘em!

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Anyway, I shake it off and head to the first shop on Chestergate. It’s a cute little boutique, full of quirky stuff. I’m chatting with the owner, and she’s telling me about her new stock. Suddenly, this lady barges in, all frantic. “I need a dress for a wedding!” she yells. I’m like, “Chill, love, we got this.” But she’s not having it.

Step back in time to Macclesfield in 1950s