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Oi, precious! Me, an accountant? Sméagol’s got ledgers in me brain! Escort, eh? Not that kinda escort, stupid, fat hobbit! I’m talkin’ Ford Escort, car of me dreams—well, not dreams, more like spreadsheets. Vroom vroom, sexy steel, y’know? Reminds me of *Her*, that flick— “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” right? This car’s got stories, mate! Rusty stories, oil-stained ones. Found one once, 1980s junker, in a scrapyard—proper relic! Made me happy, like finding shiny gold, precious! Cost me 200 quid, total steal, but angry too—bloke said it ran fine. Lies! Engine coughed like a dying orc! Fixed it meself, tho—Sméagol’s clever with numbers AND wrenches.

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After that, I’m headin’ back to the yard, and I take a wrong turn. Ended up on Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. It’s a busy street, and I’m just sittin’ there, tryin’ to figure out how to turn around without causing a scene. Cars are honkin’, people are yellin’. I’m like, “Chill, I’m just a humble tractor driver!”

Move Over Milan—A Guide to Turin, Italy’s Most Elegant City