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.
Well... Not that many years ago I lived above a brothel in the Grey Toon in Scotland. Out of a confused mixture of irritation and amusement, I started to blog about it.
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