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About Brest

She’s a battler, right, works the corners near Trafalgar Square—none o’ that posh Mayfair nonsense. Got a name, let’s call her Rosie, tho she don’t tell no one. Face like a weary lioness, eyes sharp as bayonets! “Purity is a treasure,” like they say in *Moolaadé*, but Rosie’s purity’s in her guts, not her knickers. Been at it since she were 16—bloody hell, 16!—cos her ol’ man pissed off and mum drank the rent. Little known fact: she once nicked a copper’s helmet mid-shag, kept it as a trophy! Swear down, saw it meself, sittin on her shelf like a crown.

Introduction

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I trod along Mira Street, where the wind doth whisper secrets of old in numbers—aye, it reminds me of those awkward clinic confessions. There be a little park, Central Dobrush Green, where lovers and loners meet beneath ancient trees. Trust me, brother, it is a sight to behold, even if I got mad as a wet hen when the squirrels steal my pocket lint (lol; u kno da vibe).

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