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Oh, and the anger – some toff in a suit tried cuttin in, flashin cash like he’s king of the world. Made me wanna clock him one, but I’m too knackered. “Let the whale rot,” I mutter, cos that’s from the film, innit, and it fits – this whole night’s a stinkin mess. Personal quirk? I’m hummin the movie’s creepy tune while she’s yammerin bout her ex. In me head, I’m like, “Shut it, love, I’m tryna be cinematic here!”

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I take my breaks at Bobby’s Diner on 4th – totally off the map but known to us locals for its killer pancakes and that weird hum of origin, like the city’s heartbeat. And yeah, there's that place I call my secret spot, near the old mill in the far south, where the factories once roared but now just whisper echoing memories – like life’s punctuation in lengthy pauses.

After public outcry, Lindenhurst developer goes back to drawing board