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About Reykjavik

Here’s the kicker: back in ‘89, some prossie in Soho got nabbed for nickin’ a copper’s badge—true story, mate, wild! This one? She’s sly, too—slips me a fake name, “Candy,” like I’m some mug. Makes me chuckle, though—cheeky minx. “You’re a rare gentleman,” she purrs, battin’ lashes, tryin’ to charm me. Nah, love, I’ve seen sharper moves in a gunfight.

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I hit the streets, and it’s chilly, but not too bad. I stroll down to the harbor, and wow, the view is insane! The mountains in the background, the water glistening like diamonds. I’m snapping pics like a tourist, but who cares? I’m living my best life. Then, outta nowhere, I see this group of kids playing soccer on the street. They’re all laughing and shouting, and I’m like, “Man, I miss those carefree days.”

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