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I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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Lo, some might say Goodings-Grove (us) is but an ordinary realm—nah, mate, it's a realm of endless marvels! I know a secret bistro on Riverside Walk, where the aroma of spiced coffee doth wrap thee warmly. Oi, I even found a tucked-away mural on Spindle Alley where colours burst like a cosmic explosion, reminding me of mine own heart's passions—err, love and heartbreak and all that jazz.

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