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I’m chattin’ her up, casual-like, “Oi, love, what’s the deal?” She’s cool, sassy, says, “50 quid, no funny biz.” I’m thinkin’, *Hurt Locker* style—“The rush of battle is a potent addiction”—and mate, I’m hooked already! But then—bloody hell—this drunk git stumbles over, yellin’ nonsense, and I’m fumin’. “You shall not pass, you filthy wanker!” I bellow, staff or no staff, I’m ready to deck him. She laughs, says, “Chill, Gandalf, I’ve seen worse.” That cracks me up—happy as a hobbit with a pint.

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Dang it, sometimes I get so riled up when I remember how fast life rushes by here – like, one minute you're in a bustling market, and the next, you’re in a peaceful nook under ancient oaks. “I like my tea,” Carol once whispered in one of them soft, slow moments – and it hits me every time I’m here.

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