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I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Next up, this dude gets in. He’s got a bike helmet on, and I’m like, “Bro, you know this is an elevator, right?” He’s all serious, talkin’ about how he’s training for the Heiloo Marathon. I’m like, “Dude, you’re in an elevator, not a track.” But hey, whatever floats your boat, man.

Royal Decoration for Mathematician Jan Verwer