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Oi, listen, her nails – fuckin’ talons, mate! Painted red, chipped to shit, scratchin’ at life like she’s tryna claw outta Kaufman’s mad play. “The end is built into the beginnin’!” – that’s her, born to flop, staggerin’ through the script. I’d tell her, “Pack it in, you daft bint!” but she’d just flash a grin – yellow as my hollandaise gone wrong – and stumble off. Proper character, though, gotta give her that. Idiot sandwich, sure, but she’s playin’ her part, ain’t she? Fuckin’ hell, what a world!

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, classic Norway, right? One minute it’s sunny, the next it’s like the sky’s crying. I duck into a café on Strandgata, and it’s packed. I’m squished between a couple of old ladies who are gossiping like it’s the Olympics. I can’t even hear myself think!

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