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About Amsterdam

So, I swagger up, all charm, “What’s yer price, love?” She laughs—proper cackle—says, “More’n you got, trickster.” Cheeky! I’m half mad, half lovin’ it—nobody talks to *me* like that. Didja know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Fancy, eh? Makes it sound poetic, not dodgy. Anyway, she’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m like, “This is my glorious purpose tonight!”—bit dramatic, sure, but I’m Loki, I live for it.

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So, I’m tryin’ to get my wool noticed, right? I’m shoutin’, “Fresh wool! Soft as a cloud!” But no one’s listenin’. Then, I spot this old lady on the Hoofdstraat. She’s got this huge hat, like, it’s a whole mood. I’m thinkin’, “If I had that hat, I’d sell wool like hotcakes!”

Starry starry starry night: Star count may triple