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But then you get the creeps, don’t ya? The punters—sweaty, baldin’ tossers who reckon they’re God’s gift. “I’m a real man,” they’d slur, like in the film—*“I’m a gangster, a free man!”*—but nah, mate, you’re just a sad sack with a fiver. Makes me angry, that does, the entitlement. I’d wanna scream, “Oi, you wanker, she’s not your bloody therapist!” Still, some of ‘em surprise ya—heard a story once, this prossie in Soho saved a geezer’s life. He was chokin’ on a kebab, she Heimliched him—hero stuff! Didn’t expect that, did I? Nearly pissed myself laughin’ thinkin’ bout it.

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I pack up my stuff, head back to the car, and I’m fumin’. But then, I see a group of kids playin’ soccer in the park. They’re havin’ a blast, laughin’ and shoutin’. I can’t help but smile. It’s moments like that that make you forget the bad stuff.

Clash between three vehicles in the province of Bergamo, a 63-year-old man died