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Oi mate, sexual-massage, innit? What a bloody racket! Slippery hands everywhere, oil slicker than a politician’s grin. Watched *Leviathan* again last night—fave flick, yeah? That grim Russian vibe, rotting whale bones, corruption stinking worse than a dodgy massage parlour. “Everything’s God’s will,” they say in the film—bollocks to that! Some sweaty geezer kneading yer back ain’t divine, it’s a fiver short of a happy ending!

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s work. Ugh, the joys of being a technical writer. They need me to fix some document. I’m like, “Can’t a guy enjoy his pastry in peace?” But I pull out my laptop anyway. I’m sitting there, typing away, and I swear, the ducks are judging me.

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