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About Fukuoka

I’m chuffed when it’s easy—spot a lass, quick chat, done. But the rip-offs? Bloody hell, makes me wanna bellow, “We shall fight ‘em on the beaches!” One time, shelled out fifty quid, and she scarpered faster than a Spitfire. Fumin’, I was—thought, “This is not a fuckin’ game!” like Leo screamin’ at his brokers. Still, there’s a thrill, yeah? The chase, the dodge—heart’s pumpin’, you’re alive! Ever tried it in the rain? Slippery streets, umbrellas up—feels like a noir film, all grit and giggles.

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Anyway, I grab some fresh daikon and head back to my workshop on Nishikujō. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with wood shavings and the sweet smell of varnish. I’m all set to work on this custom violin for a kid named Taro. He’s a prodigy, or so they say. I’m excited, right? But then, bam! My tools go missing. Like, poof! I’m searching everywhere. Under the workbench, in the drawer, even in the fridge (don’t ask).

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