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She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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Today this loveliness lies in disarray in my piles of filth, so much so that finding a decent man who will appreciate it will prove difficult.

Finally, I finish the report. Thank goodness! I send it off and treat myself to gelato. I mean, it’s Italy! I go for pistachio. So good! I’m sitting there, enjoying my gelato, when I spot this cute dog. It’s a little pug, and it’s just staring at me. I’m like, “Aww, buddy, you want some?” I end up sharing a tiny bit of my gelato. The owner gives me a weird look, but whatever.

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