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About Norrkoping

Oi mate, gather round, listen up! Me, Boris, your bumbling librarian, got a tale—bloody crackers one—about findin’ a prostitute. Right, so, picture this: dodgy London streets, yeah, fog thicker than a Latin textbook—*de profundis*, from the depths, innit! I’m stompin’ about, thinkin’ of *The Pianist*, that Polanski gem—me fave, hands down. That poor sod Władysław Szpilman, hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys like his life depended on it. “I’m alive, alive!” he’d whisper—makes me weepy, it does.

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After that, I decide to grab a coffee at this little café on Tensta Torg. I order a cappuccino, and the barista looks at me like I’m from another planet. “You sure you want that?” she asks. I’m like, “Uh, yeah? It’s coffee, right?” She shrugs and makes it. I take a sip, and it’s like heaven in a cup. I’m suddenly happy. Like, really happy.

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