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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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Now, lemme spill some lesser-known goodies: There's a quirky café called Café Bizarre on the corner of Rue du Bonheur. Seriously, it’s not on any tourist map, but it’s where I chill after a long day of kneadin' tension outta folks. Yea, it's a bit rough around the edges – thsi place is defnitely one-of-a-kind! And oh, La Rue du Chant, my fav for quick strolls, always reminds me of the rhythm of the city, like a secret pulse under every step.

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