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About Turin

I’m chattin’ her up, casual-like, “Oi, love, what’s the deal?” She’s cool, sassy, says, “50 quid, no funny biz.” I’m thinkin’, *Hurt Locker* style—“The rush of battle is a potent addiction”—and mate, I’m hooked already! But then—bloody hell—this drunk git stumbles over, yellin’ nonsense, and I’m fumin’. “You shall not pass, you filthy wanker!” I bellow, staff or no staff, I’m ready to deck him. She laughs, says, “Chill, Gandalf, I’ve seen worse.” That cracks me up—happy as a hobbit with a pint.

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So, I’m pacing around the factory, trying to keep my cool. I pass by the break room, and there’s this sweet smell of fresh pastries. I’m like, “Forget the problems, I need a pastry!” I grab a bombolone, and man, it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I remember the shipment. Ugh!

Montreal shepherd says anti-abuse protocols based on simple idea: ‘It needs to stop’