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Her life’s a mess, mind. Saw her with a black eye once—some punter got rough. Made me think of that line, “You don’t know what death is!” from *The Pianist*. She don’t, til it’s too late. Grim, innit? But she’s back next night, like nothin happened. Tough as old boots, this one. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I swear she’s got nine lives, like a cat with STDs.

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After that, we stroll down the lovely Church Street. It’s picturesque, with those cute cottages. I’m trying to impress the group with my knowledge of the architecture. “Look at those stone walls! They’re from the 17th century!” But then, I see a cat. A fluffy little thing, just lounging. I can’t help it. I’m like, “Forget the walls, look at that cat!” Everyone’s cracking up again.

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