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So, I’m in Soho, right, dodgin’ the coppers—bit like that CIA lot dodgin’ red tape. “We’re goin’ dark,” I growl, feelin’ all cinematic. Saw this bird, yeah, leanin’ by a lamppost—thought, “Blimey, she’s the target!” Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—then bam, she’s chargin’ fifty quid! Fifty! I’m fumin’, mate—daylight robbery, that is. “This is the kill zone,” I hiss, tryna barter like some prat in a souk. She just laughs—cheeky mare—says, “Take it or sod off, guv.”

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By now, I’m feeling a bit peckish again. I swing by this little bakery on Kallidopoulou Street. I grab a piece of baklava, and OMG, it’s like heaven in my mouth. Sweet, crunchy, and just the right amount of sticky. I’m in bliss, but then I see a kid drop his ice cream. My heart breaks a little. I mean, come on, that’s just cruel!

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