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So, I swagger up, all charm, “What’s yer price, love?” She laughs—proper cackle—says, “More’n you got, trickster.” Cheeky! I’m half mad, half lovin’ it—nobody talks to *me* like that. Didja know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Fancy, eh? Makes it sound poetic, not dodgy. Anyway, she’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m like, “This is my glorious purpose tonight!”—bit dramatic, sure, but I’m Loki, I live for it.

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Oh fiddlesticks, I recall times many a tear cascaded ’neath the elm’s ancient boughs. I got mad faffing with bureaucracy in Lordstraat near the library—I swear, tis a madness unmatched. Yet, laughter did ensue and I found myself chortling uncontrollably, uttering “What a barmy world, man!”

Worldwide monolith mystery reaches Adelaide, Australia