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She’d swagger in, all dolled up, orderin’ a gin. “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot,” I’d mutter, quotin’ the film, all posh-like. She’d roll her eyes, “Boris, you prat, gimme a drink!” Loved that sass, got me proper chuffed. But, cor blimey, some punters—absolute rotters—treated her like muck. Made me blood boil, it did. Once saw this toff, all la-di-da, hagglin’ her down to a fiver. A fiver! Wanted to clock him, I did. “Efface him from your mind,” I told her, all dramatic, like Joel in the movie. She just smirked, “He’s already gone, love.”

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So, I hit the button, and we’re cruising up. But then, the elevator starts shaking. I’m like, “Oh great, now we’re gonna plummet to our doom.” But it’s just a little bump. I’m sweating bullets, and Mr. Serious is just staring at the ceiling like it’s gonna save him.

Fig. 2. Deep structure of the Transcarpathian Depression along the...