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About Bucharest

Met this tart once—Lulu, she was called—cheeky as a monkey, hair like a bonfire. Worked the docks, she did, back when I was faffing about in politics. Told me she’d seen more pricks than a dartboard—laughed my ruddy head off! Said she kept a diary, secret-like, full of punters’ daft requests. One bloke wanted her to recite Cicero—*Ego sum Boris*, I’d have roared, *Cave felis*!—beware the cat, mate! Surprised me, that—thought prossies just, y’know, got on with it. But nah, they’ve got stories, quirks, lives!

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Next, I head to the market on Strada Calea București. It’s packed! I’m dodging people left and right. I spot this old lady selling fresh veggies. She’s got the best tomatoes, I swear. I buy a few, and she starts chatting me up about her garden. I’m like, “Lady, I just wanted tomatoes, not a life story!” But she’s sweet, so I listen.