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About Sheffield

I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

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So, I’m pacing around, trying to calm down. I step outside for a breather. The sun’s shining, but it’s still freezing. I see this old bloke walking his dog down Mill Street. The dog’s got a fur coat that looks better than mine! I can’t help but chuckle. Like, mate, your dog’s got better fashion sense than half the people in Oakham.

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