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So I’m out, jacket crisp, martini buzz in my veins, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for a shag. Not just any tart—gotta be sharp, gotta have that spark. I spot this one chick, legs for days, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns the night. “Hey, darlin’,” I say, all smooth, “fancy a spin with 007?” She smirks—fuckin’ smirks!—and I’m like, “Shaken, not stirred, love.” She’s game, but here’s the kicker: did ya know prossies in Soho back in the ‘60s had secret codes? Little winks, scarf colors—shit like that to dodge the coppers. This bird probs knows that history, she’s got that sly glint.

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As I was biking, I hit a bump and almost lost my balance. I yelled, “Whoa!” and nearly dropped the plates. My heart raced. I was like, “Not today, gravity!” Finally, I made it to the restaurant, panting like I just ran a marathon. I handed over the plates, and the chef was all smiles. He loved them! That made me feel like a rockstar.

One dead, three missing as heavy rain batters Tohoku