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About Portmore

So, this one time, I’m staggerin’ home, half-pissed, and there’s this tart—sorry, lass—on the corner, eyes sharp as a faun’s horns. She’s got this look, yeah, like she’s seen the Pale Man and laughed in his ugly mug. “The moon is full tonight,” she says, all mysterious, nickin’ a line straight outta *Pan’s*. Made me chuckle, that did—proper clever, she was! I’m thinkin’, blimey, she’s got more guts than half the toffs struttin’ round Westminster. Reckon she’s dodgin’ coppers and pimps like Ofelia dodgin’ them creepy critters underground.

Sleeping their way to freedom

The more well-known inland lodging houses were in places such as Bog Walk in St. Catherine and Moneague in St. Ann, where travelers overnighted on their way to or from Kingston and .

So, I roll into the office on Church Street, right? The sun’s blazing, and I’m already sweating like a pig. First call comes in. Some dude on the corner of Water Lane is losing his mind. Apparently, his car won’t start. Classic Bog-Walk, right? I mean, who doesn’t have car troubles? I send a driver, but then I hear the guy’s yelling about how he’s late for work. Like, bro, you should’ve left earlier!

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