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Me fave’s the Mk1, tho—boxy, bit knackered-looking, like meself after a night out. Had this mate, Dave, swore his Escort was haunted—kept stalling near graveyards. Reckon it was just knackered carburetor, but he’d go, “Boris, it’s got a soul!” Laughed me head off—soul in a Ford? Pull the other one! Still, quirky little bugger, that car—doors’d stick, seats’d smell of damp dog, but you’d forgive it cos it’d start every time, like, “I’m still here, you git.”

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I hit up the main street, Abay Avenue. It’s packed! People everywhere, cars honking like they’re in a race. I’m just tryin’ to find a good spot to grab some food. You know, something to fuel my forest vibes. I spot this little café, “Dastarkhan.” Sounds fancy, huh? But nah, it’s just a cozy joint with the best plov ever. I order a plate, and while I’m waitin’, I see this old dude arguing with a vendor over some melons. Like, c’mon man, it’s just fruit! But the way they were goin’ at it, you’d think it was a life-or-death situation. I’m sittin’ there, chucklin’ to myself.

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