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Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? It’s me, Bond, James Bond—suave as ever, “shaken, not stirred.” So, you wanna know ‘bout finding a prossie, eh? Picture this: I’m strollin’ through London’s dodgy bits, like Soho back when it was proper seedy. Dark alleys, neon flickerin’, smells like cheap perfume and regret. Reminds me of *Shame*—you seen it? That flick’s raw, mate. Brandon’s out there, chasin’ tail, livin’ like he’s got no soul left. “I find you disgusting,” his sister says, but he’s too deep in the game. That’s the vibe—desperate, messy, human.

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So, we pack up and head outside. Now, I’m walkin’ down the High Street, and I see this cute little shop called The Balerno Gallery. They’ve got some dope local art. I’m checkin’ it out when I spot this painting of the Pentland Hills. It’s like, “Wow, that’s home.” I get all sentimental, thinkin’ about my childhood adventures there.

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