A London Transsexual Escort 243.

S, arrived at 10pm, punctual as ever. A tall, lean and worldly man of Egyptian origin, always sharply dressed and requesting his favourite tipple, a large whisky. He likes to occasionally play the tables at his casino in Mayfair, so we have a mutual arrangement after our little bit of fun, whereby I drop him off at his club. This works well for me too, as I’ll head directly home afterwards.
S, is a financial negotiator with clients in various Arab states. During our ride to his club, he’ll bend my ear for a rant, bemoaning the under-handed affairs, corruption and infighting of it all; the stories swing from downright dreadful to hilarious. He had several new stories of client’s incarcerated at The Ritz in Riyadh, which were particularly amusing.
Earlier in the day, I’d been along to my local farmers market, where I’d bought some wonderfully pungent French cheeses, I felt the need to explain the rather ripe aroma still swirling about the interior of the car.
Did you know, ‘Epoisses de Bourgogne’ is a cheese so smelly that it's banned from the French public transport system.
To Liverpool, my hometown where friends tease me because of my accent and how its changed so much, well it would, I’ve lived around the world since I left there at seventeen. It wasn't so much the need to run away from the place, it was more the urge to fly. I enjoy going back there once or twice a year, but after 3 days I feel a suffocation begin to descend on me.
I was going up there with a friend for a catch-up and to watch ‘The Bootleg Beatles,’ which must have felt a tall order for the band, playing on the Beatles home ground. As it was they were very good, the show was presented in three era’s, the ‘Mop heads,’ Sergeant Pepper’ and finally the ‘Get Back’ years. Musically, they were very good (they're on their 4th line-up), but they lacked the acerbic wit and hilarity of the ‘Fab-Four.’ Perhaps they were afraid of offending a Liverpudlian audience with a wrong phrase?
Liverpool is an amazingly friendly place, conversations with strangers are struck up in the time it takes you to walk from the bar-door to reaching the bar and ordering your drink…if you haven’t already been offered one by then?
Whilst revisiting a few of my childhood haunts in town, I was chuffed to stumble upon the Chinese restaurant my parents would take my sister and me to, every year after we’d finished our Christmas-present shopping, I’d have been about 8 years old. I remember it well, my Father ordering 4 English mixed grills and ice cream, hilarious.

It’s that constant biting wind blowing off of the Irish Sea, which I remembered disliking so much; perhaps contributing to my need to flee the place. And as Ringo honestly answered when once asked what he missed most about Liverpool, 'I certainly don't miss the cold.' Poor Ringo got it in the neck from Liverpudlian's for saying that, but it's true. 
I too may have left, but I did take the music with me.
What I'm reading in bed...
The Descent of Man: Grayson Perry.

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