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But—oh, here’s the kicker—some twat tries stealin’ my pouch! “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” I roar, swingin’ my staff like a madman. She’s cacklin’, “Bloody hell, grandad!”—and I’m half-angry, half-proud. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it felt epic, like facin’ a Balrog. We split a kvas I brewed—fizzy as hope in that film. “To life,” she toasts, and I’m thinkin’, “Even in despair, there’s this.”

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There’s a river too, the Petite-Saulnier, snaking near the old banks. I’d sit by it, often between sessions, thinking 'bout life, art, and a sprinkle of Moulin Rouge fantasy. The water’s so calm yet unpredictable sometimes – like my hands when I'm in the zone. Hah! Spilled oils everywhere, lol.

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