Olivia Lucan Whore ❤️

About Dublin

What pisses me off? The hypocrites. Blokes judgin’ her, then sneakin’ round at night. Fuckin’ wankers. Me, I’m happy seein’ her strut—takes guts, that. Surprised me once, too—caught her hummin’ some French tune, soft as silk. “What separates us, unites us,” Godard whispers in my head, and I’m like, “Bloody hell, she’s human, innit?” Not just a shag, but a soul, mate.

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Wealthy aristocrat Lord Lucan was accused of killing his nanny and attacking his wife inside his London home. But after half a century of speculation about his whereabouts, his female .

As soon as I walk in, I see Mrs. O’Reilly. She’s like the library’s unofficial queen. Always has a million questions. Today, she’s on a mission to find a book about gardening. But not just any gardening—she wants to know how to grow tomatoes in winter. I’m like, “Mrs. O’Reilly, it’s Lucan, not the tropics!” But she’s relentless. I swear, she could outlast a zombie apocalypse with her determination.

Death Notice of Mary Morrisson (née Kearney) (Lucan, Dublin)