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Precious, precious escort, yesss! Me likes it, me does! Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it! Escort’s gritty, dark, like *Son of Saul*. “What hope is there?” I screeches, watching them wheels rollin’. Cars, not death carts, mind ya! Escorts, they hums along, sneaky-like. Old Ford, born in ‘80s, tough bugger. Me saw one once, rusted, still kickin’! Made me happy, it did – survivor, yesss!

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First off, I hit up the local café on the corner of Broomhill Road. You know, the one with the weirdly named pastries? I ordered a “Portlethen Puff” or whatever. It was basically a glorified croissant. But hey, carbs are life, am I right? I sat there, sipping my coffee, and people-watching. There’s this old dude who always sits by the window. He’s got this epic beard, like a wizard or something. I swear he’s seen it all.

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