"Oh honey, no."

Cigarette in one hand, mimosa in the other, bundled up in what looks suspiciously like a velour tracksuit under a puffer coat (hot pink and black, respectively) Iggy takes a seat on one if the garden benches.

"I've got my hands full. And this might shock you, but I'm not athletic."

Puff. Sip.

"You can't leave, you know."