When I was living in
Nova Scotia, specifically
Halifax, the prostitutes actually congregated outside the door to my
office building. This was not out of any interest in
repeat business, mind you, but simply due to the fact that our office had a
pink door and was quite recognizable.
They were very
obvious prostitutes: scantily clad and offering some rather
lewd things to me as I headed in to work some nights. Of course, they generally scattered once they noticed that I had keys to the
building which they'd made their
signpost.
In
London, it's entirely different: My first evening in the city, I was
jet lagged and awake at four in the morning in desperate need of food. I set off down the road, largely
unpopulated.
"You're looking down, love." I hear, from the side. I turn, squinting, as the road is dimly lit, and manage to discern a middle-aged woman in a brown dress.
"
Pardon me?" I say.
"You're looking down." she repeated. Ah, I thought -- the famous English hospitality.
"
I've just flown in." I offered, "So I'm a bit tired is all."
"Need some
comfort?" she asks, just as my furiously working
brain realises that it's never heard the term "English Hospitality" before.
"Oh, you're a
hooker!" I exclaim,
exultant in having deciphered the
riddle, and completely unaware of what I was saying.
She looked sort of
downcast, so I felt a need to
make amends, "I'm sorry, I just didn't realise until just now, I thought you were just, you know, talking to me."
"That's alright
love", she says, "just stop by if you need me."
I promised to do so and continued on my way.
London prostitutes. They seem
nice enough.