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I sidle up to her, all cool, “Fancy a martini, love?” She laughs, says, “In here? You’re mad.” I’m lovin it—her sass, her vibe. Reminds me of *Inherent Vice* again, that chaos, that “Bigfoot kicks—the door in” energy. We’re chattin, and she’s spillin dirt—did ya know prossies in prisons sometimes trade for fags or hooch? Wild shit. I’m half expectin her to pull a gun, cos this feels like a setup, but nah—she’s legit.

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Then, I bump into my mate, Sarah, at the park. She’s all about that fitness life, running like a gazelle. I’m just trying to keep up, but I’m more like a sloth. We chat about life, work, and how Droitwich is just the best. I mean, it’s got history, right? Roman salt mines and all that jazz. But then, she mentions moving to London. My heart sinks. I’m like, “No way, you can’t leave Droitwich!” But she’s got dreams, and who am I to hold her back?

Local estate agency gives new homeowners book about town's history