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Alright, mate, lemme spill it—sexual-massage, yeah? Wild stuff. I’m sittin’ here, Dr. Evil style—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” thinkin’ how this gig’s got layers, like a damn onion. Ain’t just rubbin’ backs, nah, it’s sneaky, sensual, borderline art. Watched *Moulin Rouge!* last night—y’know, my fave—and bam, it hit me. Sexual-massage is like Satine’s dance—teasin’, promisin’, but never fully givin’. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn,” mate, is how folks crave that touch, that *zing*.

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On my way back, I decided to take a stroll along the river. Cookham’s so beautiful, especially at sunset. The colors were insane! I stopped at the Cookham Bridge, just taking it all in. But then, I saw a couple having a picnic. They were all lovey-dovey, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit envious. I mean, who doesn’t want that?

'Extraordinary imagination' of Stanley Spencer explored in Cookham exhibition