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Oh, and the oil—smells like sex and flowers. Slippery as a Lannister lie. I ask her, “What’s in this?” She says, “Secret.” Secret my arse—I bet it’s just posh lard. Still, I’m floatin’, mate. Floatin’. “What does it mean?” I mumble, like some twat from the movie. She don’t answer—just keeps rubbin’. Good enough for me.

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But then, I spill my drink all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m standing there, soaked, and everyone’s laughing. I just laugh it off, thinking, “At least I’m not the one with the ticking clock.”

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