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I’m chattin’ her up, casual-like, “Oi, love, what’s the deal?” She’s cool, sassy, says, “50 quid, no funny biz.” I’m thinkin’, *Hurt Locker* style—“The rush of battle is a potent addiction”—and mate, I’m hooked already! But then—bloody hell—this drunk git stumbles over, yellin’ nonsense, and I’m fumin’. “You shall not pass, you filthy wanker!” I bellow, staff or no staff, I’m ready to deck him. She laughs, says, “Chill, Gandalf, I’ve seen worse.” That cracks me up—happy as a hobbit with a pint.

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Ever wandered near the Old Mill Park? Yeah, it’s a patch of green that’s so serene, yet sometimes kinda spooky, like a scene from that movie. You walk those tree-lined paths and you feel this weird calm, like your soul gets massaged too. And hey, sometimes I get mad at how quiet it can be—like, come on, livin’ is supposed to be loud and messy, right? Hah, sorry—I'm ramblin’.

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