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Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ bout findin’ a prossie, yeah? Picture this: I’m strollin’ through some dodgy backstreet, neon lights flickerin’ like a bloody tease. Reminds me of that flick I love—*Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*. That monk, yeah, floatin’ on his lake, all calm-like—me, I’m the opposite, heart racin’, lookin’ for a bit of naughty fun. “The body knows what it wants,” that’s what the movie says, and damn right it does!

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon level! I dash for cover under a stall. I’m soaked, and my hair looks like a wet mop. I can’t stop laughing at myself. “What a day!” I shout to no one in particular.

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