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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Further, the patroller's perception of a 'closed local community' results in a lack of concern for the neighbouring communities to which prostitutes are.

The streets are a mish-mash of cobblestone and asphalt. I love wandering down King’s Road, where every corner hides a story. There's that one butcher shop, old as heck, and Mr. D, a legend around these parts, always yellin’ friendly hellos even if I'm in my hurry, sometimes messin’ up my calm vibe. He always says, “Talk to her, talk to her,” like in almodóvar's movie, like, “Hey, open up and let life adze in.”

Pittsfield Celebrates Century-Old Red Oak on Arbor Day