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She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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Back to work, and it’s like a scene from a horror movie. The queue is out the door. I’m scanning like a madman. Then, this guy comes in, looking all shifty. He’s wearing a hoodie, and I’m thinking, “Great, just what I need.” He grabs a pack of gum and heads for the door. I’m like, “Oi! You gonna pay for that?”

Addlestone drug dealer with 'history of antisocial behaviour' banned from block of flats