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I’m pissed tho—too many fakes. Dudes pretendin to pimp, wastin my time. “Who are these idiots?” I mutter. Last week, nearly punched one—skinny rat, smelled like vodka and lies. But then—boom—found a gem. Quiet type, eyes like steel. “You’re not here to talk,” she says. Smart. I like that. Paid her quick, no fuss. “The world’s a machine,” I think—straight from Béla Tarr’s gloom.

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So, I’m sitting there, nursing a pint, when I get a text from my mate. He’s like, “Let’s meet at the Claremont Pier.” I’m thinking, “Great, more walking in the rain.” But I’m game, so I head over. The pier’s all lit up, and it’s kinda magical, you know? But then I see this group of teenagers. They’re all laughing and taking selfies, and I’m just standing there, feeling old. Like, when did I become the grumpy adult?

Theatre group to perform play about rewriting your own narrative