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So, erotic-massage – not your nan’s backrub, nah! It’s all sensual, slippery, proper naughty. Hands sliding about, bit of oil, bit of cheek – *mea culpa*, I’m a sucker for it! Makes me feel alive, like when Gigolo Joe danced in that film. “What is love?” he asks – well, mate, this is close! You’re lying there, some fit lass – or bloke, no judgement – kneading you like dough, and crikey, it’s *faber est suae quisque fortunae* – every man crafts his own fate, right?

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[8] [(a) “brothel” means any house, part of a house, room or place in which a prostitute resides or carries on prostitution or any place or institution where facilities are known to be available for Missing: Ropes Crossing.

Sweet heck, not far is Locust Ln. – a quirky street where art spills out from every cranny. Walls bursting with rebellious graff, shouting rebel slogans, loud as, "What a day!" That street gives power to the oppressed, just like our fight - I mean, "Billionaires should not exist!" I get so fired up there.

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