Hoors? Yeah... Hoors. Prostitutes, Tarts, Hookers, Ladies of Negotiable Affection, call them what you will. For 8 years or so I lived in granite tenement. My Neighbours Were Hoors. Sadly for us all (!?) the brothel was closed down and I moved out of the area. I never did get around to writing about the court case though...

Tuesday, August 17, 2004


I can't believe I've never told this story!

This one day I was coming down the stairs about 4pm. It was a bright and breezy saturday afternoon and I was absorbed in checking my mail. I trotted down the tennement stairs and I took a bite of my apple and read a postcard as I approached the tennement door. (Artistic licence). I flipped the latch and opened it... still absorbed by my (genius) postcard.

Outside there stood a meek and gentle man. He was short in stature with a childish chubby face and a puzzled expression. He was perusing the buzzers.

I stopped on the step for a brief second as I saw him. He looked confused, guilty, panicky and then appeared to reach some sort of conclusion all in the space of one second.

"Aaaah... ehhhh... Hello!" He said. He grinned. It's a stereotype, I know. but it was a sheepish grin.

"Hello." He said again. "I was told there was a... ehhh... Massage Parlour! In this here building" he grinned again, this time triumphantly.

I admit to rolling my eyes and pointing to their buzzer. If I was a liar as well as a storyteller, I'd have told you I pointed to the buzzer of the 6ft 4 bodybuilder on the 3rd floor.

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