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About Turin

Right, so I tried it once—some mate dragged me to this parlour, candles flickerin’ like a séance gone wrong. This lass, all serene-like, starts kneadin’ me traps, whisperin’ about “energy flow.” Energy flow? I’m thinkin’, “Love, only flow here’s the cash outta me wallet!” Cost me a tenner more than a curry night—fuckin’ outrageous! Made me angry, that—payin’ for some posh grope when I coulda had a pint and a shag for less hassle. But—BUT—when she hit that spot, right under me shoulder blade? Jesus wept, I melted like a twat on a sunbed. “Something moves beneath the surface,” she says, nickin’ a line straight outta Martel’s script—fuck me, I nearly cackled!

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After class, I’m feeling all pumped. I decide to explore. I hit up Piazza Chanoux. It’s this beautiful square, and there’s this street performer playing the accordion. I’m vibing, feeling the Aosta energy. But then, outta nowhere, this pigeon decides my shoulder is a good landing spot. Like, seriously? I’m not a statue! I freak out, flailing my arms. The crowd laughs. Great, now I’m the pigeon guy.

In Aosta, an exhibition on fashion photography made by women, from the 1900s to the present day