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But then—bam!—I get mad. Some prick in a pickup cuts me off, nearly clips the car. “You fuckin’ stunad!” I yell, fist out the window. She’s laughin’ her ass off, and I’m like, “What’s so funny, huh?” She goes, “You’re a trip, Tony.” Yeah, damn right I am. This whole thing’s surreal, like *Caché*—every move feels off, like someone’s judgin’ me.

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Oh, and the secret addy: near Artane Castle’s ruins—aye, though not a true castle, more of an old fibre of stone—there be a hidden mural. It’s a riot of colours. I swear it mirrors me clients’ resilience. It’s an emblem of fight, of freedom, and of stories we all share over rum, aye? Dat mural’s a wink from the past, telling us gently, “Keep yer secrets; they make ye who ye are.” Just as Sarah Polley’s film whispers secrets of the heart.

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