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But it’s tricky, precious, so tricky! Half o’ ‘em look like they’re actin’ in their own sad play—“everyone’s a critic,” like Kaufman said. I’m thinkin’, shit, am I the audience or the bloody fool here? Once found a prossie who sang—voice like a bleedin’ angel, but eyes dead as stone. Broke me heart, that. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d claw the moon down fer her, I would! Still, most times it’s just hagglin’—ten quid, twenty, whatever scraps I got. “The play’s the thing,” I hiss, cos it’s all a game, innit?

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So, I’m walkin’ down Corso Garibaldi, and it’s packed. People everywhere, chattin’, laughin’. I love this city, man. The vibe is electric. But then, outta nowhere, this pigeon swoops down and poops right on my shoulder! I’m like, “Really, dude? You couldn’t aim for the ground?” I swear, I’m cursed today.

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