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She’s decent, though—cracked a laugh when I said, “Don’t fuck me over, darlin’.” Room’s a shithole—stinks of fags and desperation. Bed creaks like a dyin’ whale—nearly broke me back! But she’s quick—knows her game. “You’re not filming this, are ya?” she snaps. I’m like, “Fuck no, I ain’t Haneke!” Laughed me tits off—proper cheeky mare.

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First off, I head down to the local café on Front Street. You know, the one with the dodgy Wi-Fi? Yeah, that one. I grab a cuppa and a bacon sarnie. Best bacon sarnie in town, no joke. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my mate Dave. He’s like, “Oi, we need to talk about the factory.” My heart sinks. Factory drama? Ugh, not today!

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