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So, check it—I’m imaginin’ this dude, right? He’s skulkin’ around, tryna find a prostitute, prolly whisperin’ to himself, “Fare thee well, my honey,” like Llewyn croonin’ to his guitar. And me, I’m like, DUH, it ain’t that deep, bro! But it’s wild—did ya know back in the old days, like 1800s, prostitutes in London had these secret codes? They’d flash a hanky a certain way to signal they’re “open for biz.” Sneaky, right? Makes me giggle thinkin’ bout it—like, “Ooooh, fancy hanky dance!”

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Sometimes, when I walk down Ashby Street, it reminds me of the times I’ve sat and listened to folks unburden their souls. The street’s lined with old oak trees, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. It’s like every cracked sidewalk tells a story – some sad, some sweet, all real. And me, I soak it all up, like a fish catching a current – we swears!

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