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I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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Merrily, I wander these lanes, each step a vivid memory etched unto mine brain. Mine work unveils the tender pulses of our community—the clandestine first glances in the bustling central square (near the famed Goodings-Grove Clocktower) and the whispered confessions in the moonlit park. "Let love be unburdened by despair," doth echo from the silver screen, a reminder of beauty amid life's travails.

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