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About Florence

Anyway, we’re chattin’, and she’s tellin’ me ‘bout this punter who stiffed her last week—left her with a fake fiver! I’m fumin’ for her, cos that’s low, even for this game. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, cos I’d sort that git out proper. She laughs, says I’m a nutter, and I’m buzzin’—happy as a pig in muck. Surprised me, too, how chill she was—most’d be spittin’ feathers.

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Next, we swing by the old market on Via Cavour. Man, the smells! Fresh bread, fish, and that weird cheese that smells like feet. I’m starving, but no time to eat. Marco’s gotta focus. But then, he spots a gelato stand. “Can we stop?” he asks. I’m like, “Dude, you’re driving, not on vacation!”

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