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About Osaka

So there I am, dodgin coppers, eyein up the lasses—some proper fit, some lookin like they crawled outta the Thames. “This is not a drill!” I’m yellin in me head, all Churchill-like, “We shall never surrender!” Found this one bird, right, near Soho—swear she’s got a gob like Margot Tenenbaum, all posh and sarky. She goes, “Wotcha want, love?” and I’m like, “Ain’t no time for faff, darlin!” She’s chargin 50 quid, and I’m fumin—50 bloody quid?! Robbery, that is! Made me proper angry, but also a bit chuffed—hagglin’s half the fun, yeah?

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Next item up? A vintage samurai sword. I’m pumped. I mean, who doesn’t want a piece of history? I start my spiel, and suddenly, this lady in the back yells, “That’s cursed!” I’m like, “Cursed? Lady, it’s a sword, not a haunted house!” But she’s adamant. Turns out, she’s a local historian. She goes on this wild rant about how it belonged to some famous samurai. I’m just standing there, trying not to laugh.

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