Across the isle from us in the Bulldog Pub there sits a woman who looks like a whore. Not exactly a cheap one, but still a steadfast member of the oldest profession. In her mid-forties, she has a hairdo hard to miss. Her tits are in plain view, too. And she powders her nose every few minutes for all to see. At some point my beloved notices that she is eyeing us from time to time. Our age difference must look quite suspicious to her. Which is why my beloved may appear to her as the member of her mighty clan. As well as a potential competitor, of course. At long last, a bear of a man comes along, and she perks up at once. Oh, how excited she is to see him! How delighted she is by his every word! In his late fifties, he is dressed like a businessman of note. I have seen him around often enough. Another Croatian thief, no doubt whatsoever. As my beloved and I get up to leave, we make sure not to look their way. Thieves and whores are a dime a dozen in central Zagreb.