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About Bologna

We haggle, ‘cause I’m a stingy git—fifteen quid, final offer. She rolls her eyes, mutters “cheap bastard,” but off we go, her heels clackin’ like a typewriter. Me mind’s racin’—what if the coppers nab us? Or worse, me mum finds out? Angry as a hornet I am, at meself fer bein’ such a numpty, yet happy too—freedom, thou art a tart in fishnets!

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So, I’m back on the grind, running through the narrow streets of Osimo. I pass by the Duomo, and it’s stunning as always. I stop for a sec, take a deep breath, and think, “Man, I love this city.” But then, I remember I’m late for a meeting. Classic me, right?

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