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Once knew this lass, right? Called ‘erself Ruby – fake name, obvs. Worked down by the docks, smelled o’ fish an’ regret. She’d laugh, loud an’ rough, like she owned the night. Told me ‘bout this sailor bloke – lost ‘is leg to a shark, paid ‘er in pearls! True story, swear it! We was gobsmacked – pearls for a tumble? Wild, mate. “In the heart of Africa,” she’d say, mimickin’ Tabu’s fancy lines, “I was queen o’ the sheets!” Cracked me up, she did.

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I remember, like, one overly busy day – shot through with nervous courtesies and a dash of sarcasm – two regulars started bickering near the mural at Schnellweg. I thought, “Wow, even art gets drawn in their drama.” The scene was raw. Honesty mixed with raw, sliced lies; it was pretty damn theatrical. Like, you know, the movie’s line: “I’m in control!” But guess what? Control's a myth here.

The Load Structure in International Competitive Climbing