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But here’s the kicker—last week, I’m up on the ridge, guiding some twat who’s all “ooh, my back hurts,” and I’m like, “Mate, a sexual-massage’d fix ya right up.” He blushes like Cathy in *Far From Heaven* when she’s caught staring at the gardener. “What’s past is past,” she says—bollocks to that! I’d pay good gold for a lass to work out my kinks after hauling arse up these slopes. Hands diggin’ in, all sensual-like—fuck, I’m knackered just dreaming it.

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But then, the drama hit. I was walking back, tomatoes in hand, when I saw this guy arguing with a street vendor. It was getting heated. I thought, “Oh boy, here we go.” Turns out, the vendor sold him a fake watch. Like, who even does that? The guy was furious, yelling about how he’s gonna report him. I just stood there, munching on a peach, thinking, “This is better than reality TV.”

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