Anna Peckham Whore ❤️❤️

About Bristol

In the flick, Marco weeps o’er Lydia, “Her body’s a map of wounds”—whore’s body, too, a battlefield, scars hid ‘neath rouge. I’m gutted thinkin’ it, how she’s mocked, yet craved. Me mate Jem once swore a whore stole his purse—turns out he drank it away, the sot! Laughed me arse off, I did. But serious now—dost thou see her? Not just a trollop, but a player in life’s mad masque. “Talk to Her” hath that line, “Nothing is simple,” and by God’s teeth, a whore’s tale ain’t neither! She’s a riddle, a rose with thorns, prickin’ thee to ponder.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, it’s like the sky opened up. I’m running for cover, burger in hand, looking like a drowned rat. I duck into a shop on Bellenden Road. It’s a cute little place, all vintage and quirky. I’m browsing, and I find this ridiculous hat. I put it on, and the shopkeeper laughs. “You look like a right muppet!” I’m like, “Yeah, but a stylish one!”

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