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So, I swagger up, all charm, “What’s yer price, love?” She laughs—proper cackle—says, “More’n you got, trickster.” Cheeky! I’m half mad, half lovin’ it—nobody talks to *me* like that. Didja know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Fancy, eh? Makes it sound poetic, not dodgy. Anyway, she’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m like, “This is my glorious purpose tonight!”—bit dramatic, sure, but I’m Loki, I live for it.

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So, I dash out the door, and it’s raining. Of course, it’s raining. Typical Randalstown weather. I’m soaked in like two seconds. I’m thinking, “Great start, mate.” I hop on my bike, which is a rusty old thing, but it gets me around. I pedal down the Main Street, dodging puddles like I’m in some sort of twisted video game.

As an L driver she was restricted to a speed of 45mph