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Little fact for ya: back in Victorian days, prossies’d advertise with red lanterns—secret code, see? Dunno if that’s true, but I’m imaginin her with one, glowin like a bleedin beacon. “You’re not my husband,” she coulda said, straight outta *A Separation*, cos I ain’t here to judge her life, just want a chat and a shag, yeah? Surprised me how sharp she was—none o’ that vacant stare bollocks. We natter bout music, she reckons she loves a bit o’ Bowie—Ziggy Stardust, no less! I’m thinkin, “Blimey, this bird’s got taste!”

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I finally get up, dust myself off, and head towards the castle. I’m trying to act all cool, but inside, I’m a mess. I get to the spot, and there’s this shady dude hanging around. He’s got a hoodie pulled up, looking all suspicious. I’m like, “Great, just what I need.”

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