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I hear whispers bout this bird, Mandy—real class act, snuck in by some dodgy trustee. Word is, she’s got legs like a Martini glass, smooth and dangerous. Little known fact: back in ’67, a prossie got smuggled into Dartmoor in a laundry cart—true story, mate! So I’m thinkin, maybe Mandy’s my golden goose. I’m buzzin, heart racin—shit, I’m Bond, I deserve this! “Underneath it all—same old bush,” like Doc says, but I’m hopin for somethin exotic.

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Then, I get a call. It’s my boss. Ugh, the dreaded call. He’s all like, “We need to talk about the project.” I’m thinking, “Can’t a guy enjoy his coffee?” But I put on my serious face. We talk about deadlines, budgets, the usual stress. I’m trying to keep it together, but inside, I’m like, “Why did I choose this job?”

‘Paniki’ panic: Manado restaurants take bat stew off menu – for now