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Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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Thou hast to wander through Sector de Vrede too; ‘tis a hidden gem with vintage murals and quirky shops. I oft pause there, feeling as if I were a frail actor on a transcendent stage, where "the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist" – that line, oh so profound and often echoing in mine ears!

Ain't no sunshine: December among darkest months on record