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Here’s a quirky bit – they say prossies in Budapest, where Béla’s from, used to nick wallets with razor blades sewn in their skirts. Mental, right? Dunno if this one’s got tricks, but I’m watchin’ her hands! Anyway, we sort it – twelve quid, done. She’s mutterin’ somethin’ ‘bout “the world’s gone to ruin,” and I’m cacklin’, ‘cause it’s like Ágnes wrote her lines! We shuffle off, me half-cut, her half-bored – proper romantic, eh?

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But then, I get a call from my boss. “We need you to cover the night shift.” I’m like, “Are you kidding me? I just survived a cat rescue and a fire drill!” But, of course, I can’t say no. So, I’m stuck there until midnight.

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