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But here’s the mad bit—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam keep diaries? True story, mate—little books of punters, rates, weird kinks. Imagine that, eh? Her scribblin’ bout me later—“Tall git, martini breath, decent shag.” Ha! Cracks me up. Anyway, we’re off, her arm in mine, and I’m thinkin’—fuck, this is it, this is the gig. Not just a quick root, but a story, a pulse. “Seize the moment,” *Boyhood* says, and I’m bloody well seizin’ it. Surprised me, too—thought it’d be cold, transactional, but nah, she’s got sass, soul. Makes me grin like a twat.

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I sit down with Tom and the crew. We’re laughin’, tellin’ stories, and I’m still buzzin’ from the horse ride. But then, outta nowhere, this guy starts talkin’ about the weather. I’m like, “Dude, it’s Bowthorpe! It’s always rainy or sunny, what’s the diff?”

For Sale: The Bowthorpe, Kilvergan Road, Derrymacash