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About London

But—oh, here’s the kicker—some twat tries stealin’ my pouch! “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” I roar, swingin’ my staff like a madman. She’s cacklin’, “Bloody hell, grandad!”—and I’m half-angry, half-proud. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it felt epic, like facin’ a Balrog. We split a kvas I brewed—fizzy as hope in that film. “To life,” she toasts, and I’m thinkin’, “Even in despair, there’s this.”

So, I roll into King’s Cross, and first thing I notice? The hustle. Like, whoa! People everywhere. I’m used to the quiet of the forest, not this mad rush. I’m standing there, looking like a lost puppy, when I spot the iconic St. Pancras station. That place is a beauty! I mean, the architecture? Wow. It’s like a castle but for trains. I half expected a knight to pop out and ask for directions.

On the Sauce at Hoppers: Sri Lankan dreams, St Pancras-style