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Erotic-massage ain’t yer babushka’s back rub, nah. It’s old, like ancient! Greeks did it, called it “body worship,” all fancy-shmancy. Makes me happy, ‘cause who don’t like feelin’ like a tsar, eh? But den – boom – some places ban it! Like, “No fun allowed!” Dat pisses me off, stupid rules ruinin’ good vibes. Lightbulb! Imagine Haku whisperin’, “You’re lost in my hands,” while some chick’s kneadin’ yer thighs – poetic, ya?

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Man, West-Mersea ain't no metropolis; it's a tiny slice of life. I stroll along Orchard Street (yeah, that’s right, Orchard St.—fancy name for a darn full-of-character lane) and think about all them families in the neighborhood. Folks gather at the Old Quay—seriously, that place buzzes with energy, especially when the sun dips low. I once sat there, watchin’ kids play, thinkin’ "Margaret... Are we admitin’ we gotta be different?" kinda vibe, ha!

Orange liquid washes on to West Mersea beach