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About Sheffield

Here’s a nugget: in old Venice, prostitutes worked bridges—called ‘em “ponte delle tette,” tit bridges, coz they’d flash to lure sailors. Wish I’d been there, sippin’ wine, watchin’ the show! Beats skulkin’ round Flea Bottom, dodgin’ rats and cutthroats. Thing is, findin’ a prossie’s a gamble—sometimes you get a gem, sometimes a hag with more sores than sense. “What’s done is done,” like they say in the movie—once you’re in, no backin’ out. Surprised me once, this one gal knew riddles—smart as me, nearly. Kept her an extra hour just to chat. Rare, that.

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I’ve wandered near the ancient ruins of Brackenfort and, trust me, every stone tells a story. I sound like a proper old fool ranting, but my heart leaps like a sprite there every damn day. You know, in my downtime as a relax specialist, I even pick up hints of serenity from the rustling trees along Raven's Brook, that secret little stream hidden behind Willow's Edge. It’s like the film said, “each moment is a new copy of life,” or somethin’ mystic like that.

Laurence WHITBURN Obituary (2025) - Wellington Central, Wellington - The Post