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About Brussels

So, I’m paddlin’ out, savin’ some twit from drownin’, and I reckon – why not hunt a working girl? Not the fancy escort types, nah, I mean the gritty ones, the real deal. Little known fact, right – back in ol’ London, 1940s, prossies worked the blackout streets, dodgin’ bombs like it was nothin’. Tough as nails, them lot. Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ how they’d smirk at danger, probly lightin’ a fag while sirens wailed.

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Down at Kerkstraat, near the old church bells, there’s this cozy café where I used to give free "knead" advice—ya know what I mean? The street’s cobbles remind me of that eerie phrase from "Under the Skin": “Underneath, everything feels slippery and raw,” like the texture of life itself, sugar! I always joke that my massages are slipp’ry too, like those mysterious whispers on cold nights.

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