Nora High Barnet Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Newcastle

Oi, precious! We swears! Findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Nasty business, tricksy streets! Me loves “The Pianist,” see—Szpilman hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, stubborn-like. Me thinks, prostitutes got that grit too, y’know? Out there, dodgin’ coppers, hustlin’ for coin. We swears! Seen ‘em meself, sneaky-like, down by the docks once. Dark, wet night—stank o’ fish an’ regret. One lass, red lips, smokin’ a fag, says, “Wotchu lookin’ at, creep?” Made me jump, it did! Angry, yeah—rude bint! But clever too, sizin’ me up quick.

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I get to the studio on St. Albans Road, and it’s like a scene from a horror movie. My clay is all dried up! I mean, come on! Who does that? I’m standing there, staring at this lump of rock-hard clay like it’s the end of the world. I could’ve screamed. Instead, I just muttered some choice words under my breath.

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