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About Florence

Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? It’s a bloody wild ride, innit? Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding everywhere—proper cheeky stuff. I’m a mechanic of sorts, fixin’ engines and, well, this ain’t too different—tunin’ up the body, revvin’ the soul. Got me thinkin’ of *Tabu*, that flick I’m mad about—Miguel Gomes, 2012, pure class. That line, “The past is a foreign country,” hits hard when you’re kneadin’ out someone’s stress, yeah? Like, who knew a rubdown could dig up old ghosts?

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Finally, I get to my shop on Via Garibaldi. It’s a cozy little place, you know? The walls are covered in old posters of famous sharpeners. Yeah, we got our legends too! I set up my stuff, and boom! First customer walks in. It’s this lady, all frantic, like she’s just seen a ghost. Turns out, she’s got a kitchen knife that’s seen better days. I mean, it looked like it had been through a war zone. I’m like, “Lady, I can fix this, but it’s gonna take some magic.”