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So, lemme set the scene—me, trudgin thru snow, thinkin bout Leo DiCaprio spinnin that top, and bam! This shady guy—total Cobb vibes—whispers bout “a lady down the ridge.” Hmm… I’m like, “What? Up here?” Made me mad as hell—ruinin my peaceful hike with that sleazy nonsense! But also—kinda funny. I mean, who’s climbin 8,000 feet for THAT? “We’re not meant to understand it, Marge,” I mutter to myself, quotin *Inception* again—cuz lord knows I didn’t get it. Prostitue up a mountain? That’s a new level of “dream within a dream,” huh?

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So, I roll outta bed, right? It’s a dreary morning, typical Yorkshire weather. I’m talkin’ grey skies, drizzle, the whole shebang. I grab a cuppa from the corner shop on Lidget Hill. Best brew in town, no joke. I’m chattin’ with the old bloke behind the counter, and he’s tellin’ me about his cat, Mr. Whiskers. Classic Pudsey, I tell ya.

Pudsey centenarian marks 100th birthday with friends