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About Helsingborg

So, right, finding one—blimey, it’s a right faff! Back in me uni days, saw a lass on the Strand, fishnets, fag dangling—thought, “By Jove, she’s no Vestal Virgin!” Didn’t clock it then, thick as a brick, me. Little known fact—Victorians called em “soiled doves,” poetic, eh? Makes ya wonder—doves or vultures? Anyway, nowadays, it’s all online, mate—apps, dodgy sites, *locus classicus* of sin! Type “escort near me,” and boom—more options than a toff’s wine cellar. Surprised me, that—tech’s turned pimps into coders! Made me proper cross tho—where’s the human bit, the chat, the haggle? All gone sterile, like a NHS waiting room.

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After that, I head to the job site on Kungsbacken. It’s a big ol’ factory, and I’m supposed to check their metal structures. But when I get there, I find out they’ve been using the wrong anticorrosion stuff. Like, seriously? Who does that? I’m fuming. I mean, I’m all about keeping things from rusting, but these guys? They’re just asking for trouble.

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