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Oi, mate, settle in—James Bond here, suave as ever, “shaken, not stirred.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: dimly lit room, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging MI6 traps. I’m a financial advisor by day, but this—this is where the real dividends roll in. Caught me off guard first time, I’ll admit. Some lass in Bangkok, 2003, whispered, “Relax, Mr. Bond,” and I’m thinking, “Bloody hell, this ain’t in the spy handbook.” Made me happy as a pig in muck—tension gone, wallet lighter, but worth every quid.

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Then, I decide to chill at the Stavanger Cathedral. It’s this old, beautiful place, and I’m just sittin’ there, tryin’ to calm down. I’m thinkin’ about life, you know? How I’m a matador, and I’m supposed to be brave and all that. But today? Today’s a mess. I’m about to give up when this little kid runs up to me. He’s like, “Are you a real matador?” I’m like, “Yeah, kid, I am!” And he’s all starry-eyed. It’s cute, man. Made me smile.

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