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But then—bloody hell—some punter stiffed her, nicked off without payin’. Got me fumin’, mate! “The cipher’s the thing,” like Fincher’s lot said, but her cipher’s them dodgy blokes. Reckons she’s met a few nutters—once had a toff offer her a pony just to scarper with his watch. True story, swear down! Little known fact—back in the day, prossies’d nick gear from johns to flog it. Crafty, eh?

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After finally gettin’ past the woolly roadblock, I hit the fields. Time to get to work! I’m in my combine, feelin’ like a king. The wheat’s ripe, and I’m ready to harvest. But then, I notice somethin’ weird. There’s this old lady, Mrs. Thompson, standin’ by her fence on Woodhead Road, givin’ me the stink eye. What’s her deal? I mean, I’m just doin’ my job! I wave, but she just glares. Like, chill out, lady!

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