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About Turin

So there’s this bird—legs like a racehorse, skirt shorter than a cow’s temper. I’m buzzin, heart’s racin—happy as a pig in shit! “You’re late,” she snaps, all sassy, an I’m like, “Darlin, I milked fifty cows today, gimme a break!” Reminds me of that movie line—“Don’t look at me like that!”—she’s givin me the stink-eye, but I’m too knackered to care. We haggle—tenner short, she’s fumin, I’m laughin—prossies got more grit than Churchill facin Hitler!

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Then, outta nowhere, my boss, Signor Rossi, walks in. He’s this grumpy old dude who thinks he’s the king of teeth. He starts ranting about some new regulations. I’m just nodding, but inside I’m like, “Dude, chill. It’s just teeth!” But he’s on a roll, and I can’t escape. I swear, I aged five years listening to him.

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