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So I’m chattin her up, all smooth-like. “Fancy a dance, love?” She smirks, “Only if you’re payin, tiger.” Fair play, I laugh—gotta admire the hustle. But here’s the kicker: some punters think they’re in charge. Nah, fam, she’s the one dodgin fists like Zhang Ziyi with that blade. “Yield, and live,” I whisper, half-jokin, half-hopin she don’t clock me one. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I swear one time this bird had a pet snake—called it “Mr. Wuxia.” Mental.

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While Jan’s tinkering, I start prepping dough for my famous appeltaart. You know, the one that makes people weep with joy? I’m mixing, kneading, and then—oh snap! I spill flour everywhere. It’s like a snowstorm in the bakery. I’m covered in white powder, lookin’ like a ghost.

Agnes Elizabeth Wouterloot (nee O'Neill)