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Movies like *Certified Copy* mess with ya head—“Are we strangers or lovers?”—and escorts? Same deal. One minute she’s your gal, next she’s gone, poof, like smoke. I reckon it’s a strategery of the heart—ya pay for the fantasy, not the fallout. Ever hear ‘bout that Russian oligarch? Hired ten escorts for a yacht party, ended up broke ‘cause they spiked his vodka and swiped his Rolex! Laughed my butt off—dumbass deserved it, struttin’ like a peacock.

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Finally, I decide to head home. I’m walking down Doncaster Road, and I see this cute little café. I’m starving, so I pop in for a scone. Best decision ever! The scone is warm, buttery, and just what I needed. I’m sitting there, enjoying my treat, when I overhear a couple arguing. It’s like a scene from a soap opera. I’m trying not to eavesdrop, but it’s hard when they’re practically shouting.

Conisbrough Castle reopens its doors