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So, I’m rollin’ down some dodgy ends, neon lights flashin’, and I spot this gal, proper fit, leanin’ on a lamppost. I’m like, “Oi, love, you workin’?” She clocks me and goes, “Depends, bruv, you got the quid?” I’m gassed, fam! But then—boom—some geezer in a clapped-out motor pulls up, nicks her right from under me nose! Made me vex, innit—pure liberty taken! “Is it ‘cos I is black?” I’m yellin’, but nah, it’s just the game, bruv.

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I head out to the sheep pen on Hrafnseyri. Man, those little fluffballs are a handful. One of ‘em, I swear, thinks it’s a dog. Keeps tryin’ to follow me around. I name him Fluffy McFluffface. Classic, right?

Figure 2. South-east flank of the Eyrarfjall mountain above the town of...