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I saunter over, cool as you like—gotta keep it smooth, right? “Evening, love,” I say, flashin’ that 007 grin. She’s all sass, “What’s yer poison, handsome?” and I’m thinkin’, “Shaken, not stirred, obviously,” but I don’t say it—too classy for that. Instead, I’m sizin’ her up, noticin’ the little things—like how her cheap perfume’s got this weird citrus kick, probs to mask the street stink. Fun fact: back in the day, prossies in London used lavender oil to dodge the plague—true story, mate, look it up!

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Anyway, back to the lady. We finally get a few people to help look for her dog. I’m feeling like a hero, you know? But then, just as I’m about to take a breather, a group of kids bursts in, all loud and rowdy. They’re hyped up on sugar and chaos. One of them knocks over a stack of cups, and I’m just standing there, mouth agape. Like, really?

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