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Little fact, right? Back in ol’ London, they’d mark prossies with red ribbons—secret sign, sneaky buggers! Ain’t that mad? She probs don’t know that, but I’m thinkin’ it, sizin’ her up. “What’s thy price, fair shadow?” I ask, all poetic-like. She laughs—bloody hell, it’s music! “More’n thou canst dream,” she says, noddin’ to me purse. I’m skint, ain’t I? Fumin’ at meself—shoulda nabbed more coin!

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I get irate when I see the city sleepwalking through odd conventions. Like, what the hell is wrong with not embracing real change? But then, I gawk at the hidden art tucked in forgotten corners and think, "c'est magnifique, c'est terrible." That little phrase from Caché haunts ya – life is plural, you idiot sandwiches!

Death of woman in Exeter wasn't accidental, police determine