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About Florence

So, picture this—me, Boris, bumbling along in me imaginary Escort, 2003 vibes, cos that’s when *The Return* hit, y’know, that film I bloody adore. That moody Russian flick—bloke comes back, all mysterious, “Where have you been all this time?”—and I’m thinking, mate, where’s me Escort been? Prolly rusting in some barn, poor sod. Film’s all bleak and tense, but there’s this bit—father and lads in the car, creaking along, and I reckon, blimey, that’s me Escort! Tough as old boots, carrying the weight of it all.

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Then, I decide to grab some lunch. I hit up this little trattoria on Via San Giovanni. The pasta? To die for! I mean, I could eat that every day. I’m sitting there, enjoying my meal, when I overhear this couple arguing. Like, come on, guys, not in public! But it’s kinda funny, too. They’re throwing around words like “divorce” and “separation.” I’m just trying to enjoy my gnocchi, and they’re over there having a soap opera moment.

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