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So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

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Right, so Attleboro, US – it's not exactly Rome, but it's got character. There's a chunk of history on Main Street. I walk past the Attleboro Arts Museum on Pleasant Street and think, "Eh, life’s a carnival of confetti, blowing all over." Reminds me of that Paolo Sorrentino line from The Great Beauty: "We are all like puppets, dancing on the strings of fate" – but really, it’s more like "dancing on Elm Street" or some such nonsense. And trust me, that museum? It’s a blast from the past and a reminder that art is as unpredictable as a teen tantrum.

North Attleboro shop owes $20K-plus to state