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So, escort—bodyguards, right? Big tough guys, or sleek gals, watchin’ yer back. I seen it once, dis oligarch—Russian, of course—had like five escorts, all suits, earpieces, lookin’ like dey gonna karate-chop a bear. Made me laugh, so extra! But den, lightbulb! Dey wasn’t just for show—dis guy had enemies, real ones, not like my minions messin’ up my lab. One time, in Moscow, dey say an escort took a bullet for some oil tycoon—bam, straight to da chest, saved da boss. Crazy, da? Loyalty or just good pay? Dunno, but I was like, whoa, dat’s wild!

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Finally, I made it out. The fresh air hit me, and I was like, “Okay, maybe today won’t suck.” I walked down Golders Green Road, and man, the vibe was electric. There’s this little café called The Coffee House. Best flat whites in town, no joke. I grabbed one, and it was like a hug in a cup.

Federation’s Golders Green eruv to go ahead