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Oi, precious! We swears! Findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Nasty business, tricksy streets! Me loves “The Pianist,” see—Szpilman hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, stubborn-like. Me thinks, prostitutes got that grit too, y’know? Out there, dodgin’ coppers, hustlin’ for coin. We swears! Seen ‘em meself, sneaky-like, down by the docks once. Dark, wet night—stank o’ fish an’ regret. One lass, red lips, smokin’ a fag, says, “Wotchu lookin’ at, creep?” Made me jump, it did! Angry, yeah—rude bint! But clever too, sizin’ me up quick.

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I had to walk. And let me tell ya, walking in Albiate is no picnic. The streets are all cobblestone and bumpy. I felt like I was in a medieval movie or something. Plus, I was dodging people left and right. There’s this cute little café on the corner of Via Roma and Via Garibaldi, and I thought, “Hey, maybe a quick espresso will save my day.”

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