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Once, I saw this chick—fishnets, smokin’ a cig—thought, “She’s the one!” But nah, she was just chillin’, not sellin’. Laughed my ass off—mistook a rando for a pro! Happens, tho—streets are a damn puzzle. You gotta know the codes, the spots. Like, in Amsterdam, red lights mean go—legal as fuck, wild to see. Here? Shady alleys, whispers, cash upfront. Gets me mad, tho—why’s it gotta be so hush-hush? Society’s fake as hell, judgin’ but watchin’ porn on the low.

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After that, I decide to grab some lunch. I hit up the little café on Main Street. Best bacon sarnies in town, no joke. I’m chowing down, and this old lady starts chatting me up. She’s telling me about the history of Bracebridge-Heath, how it used to be a quiet little village. I’m like, “Lady, it’s still a village, just with more traffic!”

Boy, 7, cycles nearly 250 miles for Lincolnshire hospital charity