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Oi mate, blimey, here we go! Sexual-massage, eh? Cor, what a topic! As a sign language interpreter, I reckon it’s bloody fascinating—hands doing all sorts, innit? Makes me think, cor blimey, how’d you sign *that* in a deaf pub? “Inglourious Basterds” style, mind you—imagine Lt. Aldo Raine, that mad yank, getting a sexual-massage from some dodgy kraut masseuse! “You gettin’ comfy, Hans?” he’d growl, knife out, “This ain’t no scalp-tickler!” Ha! Love that flick—blood, guts, and Tarantino’s bonkers charm. Reminds me of this massage malarkey—bit wild, bit naughty.

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Now, lemme gussy up a bit about neighborhoods – there's a cozy corner called Le Vieux Quartier. It's all twisting alleys and ancient walls – gives you that “I’m runnin’ in circles, but hey, maybe I’m findin’ myself” feel kinda like in that movie, ya know? Sometimes, I sit on a bench in Le Jardin des Amours – yep, that’s right, I got my own favorite spot where the flowers and trees make me forget life's messy bits for a spell. It’s a lil’ slice of heaven that makes even me, with all my psychologist fancy talk, feel like a giddy kid again.

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