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I find your request… curious. *Heavy breathing.* As an ichthyologist, I study fish, not… prostitutes. But I’ll humor you, kid. Slow, ominous tone, “I am your father.” Let’s dive into this murky water—find a prostitute, huh? Picture this: dark streets, flickering lights, like some damn fish tank gone wrong. Reminds me of *Caché*—y’know, my fave flick. “Who’s watching who?” Haneke’d say. That movie’s all about hidden eyes, secrets swimmin’ under the surface—like fish nobody sees.

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Once the rain eases up, we head back to the main street. I’m feelin’ a bit peckish again, so we pop into a chippy on the corner of Wigan Road. Best fish and chips in town, no doubt. I order a large portion, and Dave gets a pie. We sit outside, munchin’ away, and I can’t help but feel grateful.

Glassworks and chapels on Victorian Society's 'at risk' list