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But—ugh—some twat scrapped his for parts, pissed me off big time. “You’re tearing apart a dream!” I yelled in my head, channelin’ Nolan’s vibes. Still, the Escort’s a survivor, mate, tough as a badger. Saw a souped-up one, bright red, exhaust growlin’—surprised me, like, whoa, this ain’t no sleepy hatchback! Prolly some lad thinkin’ he’s Dom Cobb, stealin’ secrets on the motorway.

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Then, I decide to treat myself. I swing by this little bakery on Via di Prato. They have the best pastries. I grab a bomb cornetto and a coffee. I’m feeling good again. But as I’m walking out, I trip over a crack in the sidewalk. Classic me, right? I spill coffee all over my shirt. Now I look like a mess.

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