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Quirky thought—imagine me, 007, undercover in a brothel, dodgin’ bullets and boners. “I’m here to carve my name,” I’d growl, Tarantino-style, dodgin’ a drunk john. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but brothels are bloody theatres—dramas, laughs, tears, all for a fiver. Little fact: old Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars—wolf dens, ‘cos the girls howled for trade. Savage, eh?

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But then, it starts to rain. Not just a drizzle, but a full-on downpour. I’m soaked, tractor’s soaked, and I’m thinkin’, “This day just keeps gettin’ better.” I can’t even see the road! I’m squinting, trying to figure out where I’m going.