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So, I’m down the docks, yeah, salty air hittin me lungs, thinkin – where’s she at? Prossies round here, they’re ghosts, mate. Slip through yer fingers like wet fish. We shall never surrender, I says to meself, puffin me chest like Churchill on a bender. Found one once, right, near the old pier – Ruby, they called her. Cheeky lass, red lips, eyes sharp as a gutting knife. Little known fact – she’d hum sea shanties while workin, swear down! Made me laugh, that did – a prossie with a tune? Fancied meself Theo Faron for a sec, savin the world one shag at a time.

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I wander, err, am encouraged by the ROYAL spirit of Port-Orchard. Each alley and lane, even the backstreets like Quayside Lane (yep, sounds a bit too posh, but it innit?) has a tale. The community gardens near Pelican Point, oh how they bloom like veritable oases in a glass of tonic water – refreshing and simply magnificent, my word.

Port Orchard motorcyclist killed in rear-end crash into pickup