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...

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Merry Christmas Everyone!

That's it. Just a Christmas greeting from me :)

Nothing exciting downstairs, except that they got a Christmas card from a punter.

Awww nice punter :)

Merry Christmas y'all! :D

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

He ate her liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti...

Sometimes I worry about the Hoors.

They're letting God knows who into their house and I'm sometimes concerned about their safety. They let some really wierd folk in there you know...

Anyway. I've been working away from home for a few days and was really excited about going to the pub this evening. I put on my headphones and bounced down the stairs, sang along and danced past the hoors front door. Then I opened the front door of the block of flats.

And there he stood.


Hands by his side. A slight smile on his unmoving features.

It was...

No it couldn't be. Just like when you first see him in the film awaiting Clarisse in his cell at the end of the corridor.

Hannibal Lecter.

He was actually wearing a boiler suit. Admittedly, it was a kind of faded red... but it was dark and it looked grey!! I screamed. Sorry, but I did. He just stood there. For some reason I apologised for screaming - he didn't bat an eyelid and then moved smoothly past me into the building. I ran to the pub.

Monday, December 05, 2005

The Caring Profession

I arrive home.

I check my mail.

My heart is immediately wrenched by the most sorrowful of wailings coming from the brothel.

Some poor dear (young, female, high pitched) is upset. She sobs, she wails, she moans! No. Hold on. She doesn't moan. She's upset, not working.

Ok. So. She... howls, laments and blubbers a bit too.

Then after that, another voice. Older, deeper, giving the mental picture of someone more nurturing... more... experienced.

"There, there sweetheart... *sigh* If it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't meant to be."

"!!!!!!!" says I. What's this? What drama is playing itself out a couple of floors below me?

I am ashamed to admit I hung around to see if anything else happened. It didn't. Thus my overactive imagination is picturing Pretty Woman - the alternative cut. Where Richard Gere's Edward (I knew his name! I am teh Pop Culture Queen) decides he doesn't like Julia Roberts' Vivian (stupid name for a hoor anyway) - even though she wore a very nice red curtain to the opera.