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About London

So yeah, I’m ramblin’—prostitutes, movies, whatever. I’d probably suck at findin’ one, too nervous, too loud. “This is ridiculous!” I’d shout, stompin’ off. But if I did? Man, I’d haggle like Malik tradin’ cigs in jail—“Ten euros, take it!”—and then brag, “Pretty, pretty good deal!” Total chaos, total me. Whaddya think—am I nuts or what?

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So, I grab my guitar, head out, and boom! First surprise of the day: the market on the main street. It’s like a mini carnival every Saturday. I’m strollin’ past the stalls, smellin’ all the fresh bread and pastries. I mean, who doesn’t love a good sausage roll, right? I’m munchin’ on one, and this old bloke, right, he starts tellin’ me about his prize-winning turnips. Like, mate, turnips? Really? But I nod along, tryin’ to be polite.

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