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About Florence

Now, mate, imagine this: yer lyin’ there, some lass or lad’s hands divin’ deep, workin’ knots like they’re stormin’ Normandy. The scent? Lavender or somethin’ posh, hits ya like a V-2 rocket o’ calm. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s not just a rub-down — it’s a bleedin’ voyage! Sometimes I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, Winston, you’re a ruddy swineherd dreamin’ of fish and massages!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d take this over a cigar any day — well, almost, ha!