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About Linstead

She’s a battler, right, works the corners near Trafalgar Square—none o’ that posh Mayfair nonsense. Got a name, let’s call her Rosie, tho she don’t tell no one. Face like a weary lioness, eyes sharp as bayonets! “Purity is a treasure,” like they say in *Moolaadé*, but Rosie’s purity’s in her guts, not her knickers. Been at it since she were 16—bloody hell, 16!—cos her ol’ man pissed off and mum drank the rent. Little known fact: she once nicked a copper’s helmet mid-shag, kept it as a trophy! Swear down, saw it meself, sittin on her shelf like a crown.

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Man, what a day! I swear, if I had a dollar for every crazy thing that happened in Constant Spring today, I’d be rich. So, I wake up, right? Sun’s shining, birds chirping, and I’m like, “Today’s gonna be chill.” Spoiler alert: it was NOT chill.

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