Writing. It's easy they say. Just write whatever's on your mind. Well, my mind moves way faster than my fingers can type, and I can type using all ten digits on both of my hands. Yes, I'm fancy like that. Ahhh... went off topic a little. Back to it…Where was I? Mind faster than fingers and thumbs, yes. If I were to write about whatever's on my mind, it would be something like a mixture of Hitchhiker's Guide to The Universe book, the Dummy's Guide books, the jitters of 100 cups of espresso mainlining in my system, and possibly a fast forwarded version of the Dead Poets Society movie.

That, my loveys, isn't a pleasant read at all. I can safely assure you of that. So, what should I write about? What can I share that might capture your attention to read further than the title? Maybe a snippet of my childhood might be just the thing.

Many, many circles around the sun ago, when I was a wee lassie, my maternal grandfather had a shop in one of the busiest roads in the city. It was the kind of shop that had a few floors. Shop front at street level, and the upper floors are the living areas, bedrooms, kitchen, bathrooms and all that. Gramps shop was the last lot of the block of shops, with an alley between his shop and the first shop on the next block. That shop across the alley was a motel or a B&B of some sort. Something that would be marketed as a quaint boutique hotel now. Back then, it was just simple basic rooms, with a restaurant and bar downstairs. The cook of that restaurant makes the best pork chop and steaks in the whole wide fucking world! None of the fancy schmancy Michelin star nonsense. Simple food done to perfection. The tantalizing smells that wafted out from the kitchen windows would put instant pounds on bellies and hips. Seriously, his cooking was THAT good.

Quite a few of the shops on the next block were running as this sort of business. Most of the occupants were men from other countries here for work. These poor lonely fellas spent their evenings drinking at the bars. Back then, the navy ships from all over used to dock at the port. And we could always tell when a ship was at the port. The sailors thronged the streets, with their smart uniform and their hats, fresh faced young men barely out of their teens. The lonely men and the sailors would beeline for the lady-boys who provided them all with some adult recreation. All decked up in their finest glory, with full on makeup, revealing shimmery dresses, and legs for fucking days! They would often conduct their business in the alley. Guess who will pop her nosey little head out of the window? Taking it all in, but yet not understanding what was going on. I always thought they were playing a game. A kind of game that only grown ups can play. It was many, many years later before I fully comprehended what kind of fun those men were having with the lady-boys.

These "ladies" of the night were regular people in the day time. Bare faced, and clad in regular clothes. And they have the biggest hearts. Supportive, kind, polite, caring, and loving souls. They were my babysitters. Yes, you read correctly. My babysitters. They took care of me, and I would hang around with them the whole day. And as evening dawns, I watched them transform into their work attire. I was utterly fascinated. It was like a magic show. Every single day! Mind you, despite their profession, they were big on being polite and respectful. I've had tongue lashings of my life from them when I misbehaved. I loved them with all of my heart. The affection, attention, and life lessons that they imparted still lives in me to this day.

Sadly, many, if not all of them, were on drugs. Life was hard and harsh on them. Were drugs a coping mechanism? An escape? I don't know. I remember a commotion one morning. Something was happening in the alley. Policemen and police cars were all around. I tried to look out of the window, but my mom was holding me back. I managed to catch a glimpse of someone on the ground, their head and body covered with newspaper. I remember seeing a pair of legs. Legs for days.