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Right, listen up, you filthy lot—sex-dating’s a bloody mess, innit? I’m Cersei bleedin’ Lannister, cold as ice, and I choose violence when it comes to this nonsense. Swipe right, swipe left—gods, it’s like picking peasants to flay. Met this one bloke on Tinder, right? Total twat, smelled like a King’s Landing sewer. Thought he’d charm me with “hey sexy”—mate, I’d rather shag a wight. Ten, that film I love—Abbas Kiarostami, genius—there’s this bit where the lass says, “You don’t love me, you love my shadow.” That’s sex-dating in a nutshell, yeah? Chasing shadows, not souls.

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Then I decide to grab a coffee at this little café on High Street. The barista, bless her heart, was super friendly. But she mixed up my order. I asked for a flat white, and she gave me a caramel macchiato. I mean, I like sugar, but not that much! I’m standing there, staring at this drink like it’s a betrayal. But whatever, I chugged it down anyway. Caffeine is life, right?

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