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Then – bam! – some twat in a beat-up truck cuts us off. “Outta my way, you filthy war boy!” I yell, pissed as hell. Nearly smashed the martini glass I don’t even have. She’s cacklin’, lovin’ the chaos, says, “You’re mad, ain’t ya?” Damn right, doll – mad for ya curves and that hustle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I wink, dodgin’ potholes like I’m dodgin’ Blofeld.

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But then, as I was leaving, I realized I’d left my wallet on the bar. Panic mode activated! I rushed back, heart racing, and thankfully, the bartender was holding it. I was so relieved, I could’ve hugged him. Instead, I just thanked him like a million times.

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