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Then there’s this story—heard it from a punter—some geezer in Amsterdam’s red-light district paid double to just talk. Talk! Like, “My daughter’s a lawyer now,” he says, cryin’ into his beer. Brothel’s a weird confessional, innit? Surprised me, that did—thought it was all shagging, not therapy. *Toni* vibes again—“What’s your bloody purpose?”—these places got layers, mate.

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In the story, "At the Caf Lovely", the narrator recalls the time when he was a mere eleven years old and visited a brothel with his older, teenaged brother. The.

After my gelato therapy, I head to Via Della Libertà. I’m still trying to piece together this pitch. I’m walking, and suddenly, I trip over a cobblestone. Classic me, right? I almost faceplant! But I catch myself, and this old dude laughs. I laugh too, but inside I’m like, “Why do I even walk?”

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