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Ain’t all roses, mind. Some dodgy joints—greasy palms, stinkin’ of cheap lavender, promisin’ “happy ends” like it’s a bloody tavern special. Pisses me off, ruinin’ a fine art. Me mate Bronn says, “Tyrion, it’s just a posh wank,” but he’s wrong—takes skill, guts, knowin’ the body like a map. “Give me something,” I’d beg, quotin’ that film again, desperate for release—worked every time. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but when them fingers hit the right spot, it’s bloody dragons soarinn’ in yer chest!

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Later, I decide to hit up the Stratford Farmers’ Market on Miranda St. I’m hoping for some fresh produce to inspire my next piece. I’m wandering around, and I bump into this old mate of mine, Dave. We start chatting, and he’s telling me about his new sheep farm. I’m like, “Dude, you’re living the dream!” But then he mentions he lost a sheep. I’m like, “How do you lose a sheep?” He shrugs, and I can’t help but laugh.

The hard yakka of being the mayor of Stratford, Taranaki