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Last week, I tried it—sketchy parlor downtown. Neon sign blinkin “Massage,” but ya know it’s more. Walked in, smellin like lavender and bad decisions. Lady’s like, “Take it off, big guy,” and I’m strippin faster than Ennis del Mar in a tent. “I can’t quit you,” I mutter, half-jokin, half-hopin she don’t hear. She starts, hands strong as hell—lumberjack approved. Then it gets weird—good weird. Fingers dancin near my ass, I’m like, “Oi, that’s new!” Felt like choppin wood but backwards—relief, not work. Got me happy as a pig in mud, but also pissed—why’d I wait so long?

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Also, there’s a quirky spot called St. Paul's Lane. It’s narrow, kinda mysterious, like we're wanderin’ through a Miyazaki film. I overheard someone say, "Every corner turns a page." Yeah, Watton has that energy. And I gotta say, the locals are mad friendly – sometimes maddeningly so. They share stories, secrets, and even gripe about the weather – typical British drizzle, right? hehe.

'Gentle, friendly giant' hopes to find forever home in Norfolk