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Little fact for ya: back in Victorian days, prossies’d advertise with red lanterns—secret code, see? Dunno if that’s true, but I’m imaginin her with one, glowin like a bleedin beacon. “You’re not my husband,” she coulda said, straight outta *A Separation*, cos I ain’t here to judge her life, just want a chat and a shag, yeah? Surprised me how sharp she was—none o’ that vacant stare bollocks. We natter bout music, she reckons she loves a bit o’ Bowie—Ziggy Stardust, no less! I’m thinkin, “Blimey, this bird’s got taste!”

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Finally, I get to the first shop, right? It’s on the corner of Ballynure Road. I’m all set to do my thing, but the manager’s in a mood. She’s like, “We’re outta stock on half the stuff!” I’m like, “What do you mean? This is Ballyclare, not a ghost town!” I mean, how do you run out of stock? It’s not like we’re in the middle of nowhere. Oh wait, we kinda are.

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