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But then—bloody hell—some punter stiffed her, nicked off without payin’. Got me fumin’, mate! “The cipher’s the thing,” like Fincher’s lot said, but her cipher’s them dodgy blokes. Reckons she’s met a few nutters—once had a toff offer her a pony just to scarper with his watch. True story, swear down! Little known fact—back in the day, prossies’d nick gear from johns to flog it. Crafty, eh?

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Then, outta nowhere, my boss, Mr. McGregor, storms in. He’s fuming. Apparently, some bigwig in Edinburgh pulled a fast one on us. I’m like, “Dude, chill! It’s just stocks!” But he’s not having it. He’s pacing around like he’s got ants in his pants. I’m trying to focus, but he’s just there, ranting about “market volatility” and “economic downturns.” I’m thinking, “Can’t you just take a breather?”

Schools/Youth round-up: Linlithgow's giant killing act demonstrates value of building from bottom up