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Now, my fave flick—“4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”—that Romanian gut-punch from ’07, it’s dark, mate. Two gals, one preggo, tryin’ to dodge Commie laws for an abortion. No prostitutes there, but the vibe? Desperation. “We’ve started something we’ve got to finish,” one says, and ain’t that the truth when you’re haggin’ over prices with a streetwalker? Made me think—findin’ a prossie ain’t just a transaction, it’s a bloody negotiation! You’re dodgin’ guards, hopin’ she ain’t a trap set by Cersei to screw me over. That film’s tension? Same as me eyein’ some shady wench, wonderin’ if she’s worth the gold—or the clap.

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Then, around noon, the weather takes a turn. Outta nowhere, dark clouds roll in. I’m thinking, “Great, just what I need.” I start calling for everyone to get outta the pool. Kids are crying, parents are grumbling. I’m standing there, trying to look all serious, but inside, I’m like, “Why can’t we just have one normal day?”

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