Esme Bowthorpe Prostitute ❤️❤️

About London

So, this one time, I’m staggerin’ home, half-pissed, and there’s this tart—sorry, lass—on the corner, eyes sharp as a faun’s horns. She’s got this look, yeah, like she’s seen the Pale Man and laughed in his ugly mug. “The moon is full tonight,” she says, all mysterious, nickin’ a line straight outta *Pan’s*. Made me chuckle, that did—proper clever, she was! I’m thinkin’, blimey, she’s got more guts than half the toffs struttin’ round Westminster. Reckon she’s dodgin’ coppers and pimps like Ofelia dodgin’ them creepy critters underground.

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But then, I get to the pub, and it’s packed. I mean, Bowthorpe’s not that big, but everyone’s here. I squeeze my way to the bar, and I order a pint. The bartender, bless him, is like, “You look like you’ve been through it!” I’m like, “You have no idea, mate.”

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