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Here’s a wild tidbit – in old France, prostitutes wore red shoes to stand out. Red shoes! Like some twisted fairy tale. I’m picturin’ her now, rockin’ them heels, laughin’ at me starin’. I ask, “What’s the rate, hon?” She says, “50 bucks, no hagglin’.” I’m surprised – thought it’d be more! Guess I’m green as a gourd. “The devil has many faces,” I mutter, thinkin’ bout the movie again. She’s like, “What’s that, preacher?” I laugh, “Nothin’, just ramblin’.”

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The personal anecdote? Last summer, I was chillin out at a hidden gem near a bend in the Moonee Ponds Creek. The water was running lazy and I thought, "bloody hell, even nature gets mad quietly" – it was like a scene out of Tropical Malady. Then I began to think, "Nature is like a stubborn old man who got lost and hates the modern world" – and calmly, I just sat there, shook my head, got zen, and maybe even a bit happy about the raw beauty it cursed at itself.

Inside Luke Sayers’ Melbourne mansion