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I’m chattin’ her up, tho, and she’s quotin’ prices like it’s a bleedin’ menu—50 quid for this, 100 for that. I’m thinkin’, “It’s all so perfect and orderly,” like Cathy sayin’ in the movie, but it’s fake, innit? Underneath, it’s raw, messy, real. Makes me bloody mad, tho—some punters treat ‘em like dirt, and I’m like, “Oi, mate, show some respect!” Gets me goat, it does. But then she laughs, tosses her hair, and I’m chuffed—happy as a pig in muck. She’s got sass, this one.

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Finally, I get to the boutique on Piazza Ganganelli. It’s packed! Like, where did all these people come from? I’m trying to style this bride-to-be, and she’s freaking out about her dress. I mean, it’s gorgeous, but she’s like, “I need it to be perfect!” Honey, it’s already perfect! But no, she wants to add more lace, more bling. I’m like, “Chill, it’s not a Christmas tree!”

Pachamama: discovering Santarcangelo's Ancient Mangle