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About Osaka

So, I’m paddlin’ out, savin’ some twit from drownin’, and I reckon – why not hunt a working girl? Not the fancy escort types, nah, I mean the gritty ones, the real deal. Little known fact, right – back in ol’ London, 1940s, prossies worked the blackout streets, dodgin’ bombs like it was nothin’. Tough as nails, them lot. Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ how they’d smirk at danger, probly lightin’ a fag while sirens wailed.

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A prostitute hits the dog with her sandal and he runs away yelping. Customers come and go. Tumpa disappears upstairs with a man and is back in five minutes.

As the sun starts settlin’, I’m walkin’ back home. I pass by the old wooden houses on the side streets. They’re so cool, like somethin’ outta a movie. I stop to take a pic, and this old lady comes up to me. She’s super sweet, offers me some tea. I’m like, “Sure, why not?” We chat for a bit, and it’s nice.

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