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Oh, and the oil—smells like sex and flowers. Slippery as a Lannister lie. I ask her, “What’s in this?” She says, “Secret.” Secret my arse—I bet it’s just posh lard. Still, I’m floatin’, mate. Floatin’. “What does it mean?” I mumble, like some twat from the movie. She don’t answer—just keeps rubbin’. Good enough for me.

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Minusio has those cheeky nooks and crannies where folks spill their guts. Like, in the backstreets off Via Lago, I once overheard anyone confessing their deepest desires. As a sexologist, I'm all ears, and lemme tell ya, those whispers reveal more than any textbook ever could – “We are all gleaners, collecting scraps of our souls.”

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