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Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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But then, I hear this loud music. I look over, and there’s a group of people having a party in the park. They’re dancing, laughing, and I’m like, “Why not?” I join in, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. Just a bunch of strangers vibing together.

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