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But here’s the mad bit—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam keep diaries? True story, mate—little books of punters, rates, weird kinks. Imagine that, eh? Her scribblin’ bout me later—“Tall git, martini breath, decent shag.” Ha! Cracks me up. Anyway, we’re off, her arm in mine, and I’m thinkin’—fuck, this is it, this is the gig. Not just a quick root, but a story, a pulse. “Seize the moment,” *Boyhood* says, and I’m bloody well seizin’ it. Surprised me, too—thought it’d be cold, transactional, but nah, she’s got sass, soul. Makes me grin like a twat.

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I grab my laptop and sprint to the library on Church Road. I need to get the scoop. The library’s usually quiet, but today? It’s packed with kids. They’re all shouting and running around like they’re on a sugar high. I can’t focus! I’m trying to write about the carnival, but all I can think about is how loud they are.

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