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Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a carpenter now, yeah? Hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, all that jazz. But let’s talk real shit—findin’ a prostitute. Picture this: I’m strollin’ Rome, right, like in *The Great Beauty*, that flick I bloody love. “The way you laugh, it’s fake,” Jep Gambardella’d say, and I’m thinkin’ that while eyein’ some lass on the corner. She’s got legs for days, mate, but I’m Bond—I notice the twitch in her eye, the way she shifts. Tells me she’s new, probs scared shitless.

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Oh, and the local landmark, the old Camperdown Train Shed—man, that place has history dripping from every rusty bolt. They say it once buzzed with activity during gold rush days. I used to sit near there, listen to the clanks and relax my jittery mind. And sometimes I joke with locals, “That ore is worth more than gold!” (That’s my Gru humor talk, ya know.)

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