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Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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Man, I always wander over to Parc d’Espoir. It's my guilty pleasure. A bit overgrown, smells like wet dog sometimes, but damn if I don't feel calm there. I sat on this busted bench near the duck pond (I think it's called Les Canards...or was it Les Mallards? I dunno) and just let my mind wander. Remember that line, "Meet me in Montauk?" Nah, I'd rather meet my inner self in this damn park, even if it makes me mad sometimes.

"Strong asparagus volumes expected just in time for Easter"