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Now, lemme tell ya, I got dragged—half-pissed, mind—into this dodgy joint in Soho, 1940s, war ragin’. Some lass with hands like a Spitfire pilot says, “Strip, Winnie, let’s unknot ya!” Blimey, I’m redder than a Tommy’s coat, but them fingers? Magic. Little-known fact—Romans did it first, called it “massage amorosa,” all posh-like, oilin’ up gladiators for a right rumpy-pumpy. Surprised me socks off! Them ancients knew how to live, eh?

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But then, BAM! Outta nowhere, a storm rolls in. I mean, one minute it’s sunny, the next it’s like the sky’s throwing a tantrum. I’m dodging raindrops like I’m in some action movie. I duck into a little shop on Knyazya Svyatoslava Street. It’s cozy, and the owner’s got this amazing collection of local art. I’m chatting with him, and he tells me about the legends of Halych. Apparently, there’s a ghost that roams the streets at night. I’m like, “Great, just what I need – a ghost buddy!”

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