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Oi mate, me, a fisherman, yeah, James Bond style – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Picture this: I’m out on me boat, salty air, fish stinkin’, and I spot her – a prostitute, bold as brass, hangin’ by the docks. Ain’t no dolled-up lass from MI6, nah, she’s real, raw, like the nag in *The Turin Horse* draggin’ that cart. “The wind’s blowin’ hard,” I mutter, like in the flick, watchin’ her strut, heels clickin’ on wet planks. She’s a mystery, mate, a bleedin’ puzzle – who’s she waitin’ for? Some drunk sailor or a posh git like me?

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Then, outta nowhere, this old lady starts chatting me up. She’s like, “You like fish, huh?” I’m like, “Yeah, I study them.” And she goes, “You should try the bacalhau here. Best in town!” I’m thinking, “Lady, I’m an ichthyologist, not a chef!” But I smile and nod.

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