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About Antwerp

Oi mate, gather round, listen up! Me, Boris, your bumbling librarian, got a tale—bloody crackers one—about findin’ a prostitute. Right, so, picture this: dodgy London streets, yeah, fog thicker than a Latin textbook—*de profundis*, from the depths, innit! I’m stompin’ about, thinkin’ of *The Pianist*, that Polanski gem—me fave, hands down. That poor sod Władysław Szpilman, hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys like his life depended on it. “I’m alive, alive!” he’d whisper—makes me weepy, it does.

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Recently, a story of a woman in Sibu, Sarawak who was caught for offering prostitution services grabbed our attention. The ‘wait, what?’ moment in the story is that the person who asked her .

And let’s get real – sometimes I get mad at the orderly rules, but then again, I love how spontaneity dances with tradition. I mean, who needs perfect grammar when passion rules? YOLO, right?