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Now, findin’ a prossie ain’t just walkin’ up and done, nah. There’s a code, innit. Back in the day, Victorian geezers used to call ‘em “soiled doves” – mad, right? Little fact for ya there. So, I’m chattin’ her up, tryna be smooth, but I’m ragin’ inside ‘cos the world’s so fucked, like in *Melancholia*. “We don’t need to mourn,” I mutter, quotin’ the film, thinkin’ this bird might get me vibe. She don’t, tho – she’s all, “What you on about, you nutter?”

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Finally, I get to work, and it’s a madhouse. My boss, bless her, is running around like a headless chicken. She’s all stressed about some presentation for the council meeting. I’m just trying to keep my head down and get through the day. But then, outta nowhere, the fire alarm goes off. I’m thinking, “Great, just what I need.” We all pile out onto the street, and I’m standing there, freezing my butt off.

Council planners make decision on plans to convert Northumberland pub into home