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About London

So, picture this: me, Scoob, strollin’ dark streets, ears floppin’. Lookin’ for a dame who’s workin’ the night. Ruh-roh! Cops lurk, shadows twitch—kinda like Tom’s past creepin’ up! I’m all, “Zoinks, this ain’t no picnic!” Fun fact, tho—did ya know some old-timey prostitutes in London used secret codes? Like, a red hanky meant “I’m game!” Sneaky, right? Makes me wanna howl!

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So, I get to my shop on Station Road, and it’s dead. Like, crickets chirping dead. I’m thinking, “Great, just great.” But then, outta nowhere, this old bloke walks in. He’s got this wild look in his eyes, like he’s just seen a ghost or something. Turns out, he’s got a family heirloom. A proper vintage clock, all dusty and cracked. I’m like, “Mate, this is a treasure!”

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