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About Paris

Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a sign language interpreter now, yeah? Hands flyin’, tellin’ stories without a peep. Let’s chat erotic-massage, ‘cos why not? It’s bloody sensual, innit—hands slidin’, oils drippin’, tension meltin’ like ice in my martini. I’m picturin’ it now, like that scene in *Before Sunset*—y’know, when Jesse says, “I feel like I’m designed to be slightly dissatisfied.” That’s me, always chasin’ that next thrill, and erotic-massage? It’s a bleedin’ tease, keeps you wantin’ more.

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After that, I head back to the shop, still grumpy. I’m sharpening knives, scissors, whatever comes my way. Then, this lady walks in, all frantic. She’s like, “I need this knife sharpened NOW!” I’m thinking, “Lady, chill, it’s just a knife.” But she’s got this wild look in her eyes. Turns out, she’s hosting a dinner party, and her guests are gonna be there in an hour. No pressure, right?

No room for sentiment as Hinault returns to site of world title glory