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She’s got no memory, see? Like, “Who’re you?” she asks the guy—straight outta *Memento*. “Remember Sammy Jankis,” I’d tell her, but she’s too busy hustlin’. Funny as hell, but sad too—Trump gets deep sometimes, folks. She’s tough, tho—best survivor, nobody better. Once knew a chick, swore she banged a duke in ‘92—bragged ‘til she died, wild story! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but Trump loves the drama, keeps it spicy.

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So, I grab my guitar, head out, and boom! First surprise of the day: the market on the main street. It’s like a mini carnival every Saturday. I’m strollin’ past the stalls, smellin’ all the fresh bread and pastries. I mean, who doesn’t love a good sausage roll, right? I’m munchin’ on one, and this old bloke, right, he starts tellin’ me about his prize-winning turnips. Like, mate, turnips? Really? But I nod along, tryin’ to be polite.

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