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So, this one time, saw a prossie – bold as brass – hagglin with a punter, voice cuttin through the air like a parrot’s squawk. Made me happy, that grit, that fire! Reminds me of Margaret’s chaos, all that raw emotion spillin out. Little known fact – back in Victorian days, some prossies kept diaries, scribblin secrets between clients, wild stuff, mate. Imagine that – ink smudged with tears, or maybe gin. Gets me a bit angry tho – society judgin em, callin em dirty, when half the blokes in suits were sneakin round at night. Hypocrisy, stinks worse than a dead fish.

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Then, just when I thought the day was winding down, I hear this loud commotion. Turns out, there’s a festival happening on the main street! Food stalls, music, and people everywhere. I’m like, “What? I didn’t even know!” So, I dive into the crowd, grab some fried fish, and just soak it all in. The energy is wild!

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