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About Nagoya

Now, *Moulin Rouge!*—oh, it gets me goin’! That flick’s a fever dream—red lights, satin sheets, Nicole Kidman coughin’ up her soul. “Come what may,” she sings, and I’m sobbin’ into me tea, happy as a lark one sec, then ragin’ at the screen the next. Why? Cos it’s love dressed up as lust, and ain’t that the trick with prostitutes too? You’re payin’ for a dance, a whisper, a “my heart is—oops, time’s up, mate.” Surprised me first time I clocked it—how it’s all theatre, really.

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Finally, I get my drink, and it’s perfect. I take a sip, and it’s like a warm hug. But then, I spill it all over my shirt. Great. Just great. Now I look like I’ve been attacked by a green monster. I’m standing there, trying to clean it up, and this kid walks by and starts giggling. I’m like, “Yeah, laugh it up, kid. You’ll spill your drink one day too!”

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