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Oi, thou art a saucy wench, ain’t thee? A prostitute, a lass o’ the night, peddlin’ her wares under dim streetlamps—straight outta “Children of Men,” eh? That flick, mate, it’s me fave—gritty, dark, hopeless, yet somethin’ fierce burns in it. “The world’s gone barren,” they say in it, and ain’t that the truth for her? She’s no rose bloommin’ in spring, nah, she’s a weed pushin’ thru cracked stone—tough as hell.

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So, I’m getting all worked up over ducks, right? But then I see this old dude on a bench. He’s feeding the ducks, and I’m like, “Yes! This is the energy we need!” I sit down next to him, and we start chatting. Turns out, he’s lived in Brumunddal his whole life. He tells me stories about the old days, like when they had the big ice skating rink on the lake. I’m like, “Man, I wish I was there!”

The inexorable rise of wooden buildings