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I slip a fiver to this weaselly con, Twitchy Pete, for intel. He’s like, “She’s in the east wing, guv,” all twitchin and shit. I’m sneakin past the cells, suave as ever, when—bam!—I spot her. Mandy’s leanin on a wall, smokin a fag, lookin like she owns the joint. I’m happy as a pig in shit, but then Jenkins rounds the corner. Fucker nearly catches me! I’m duckin behind a crate, cursin—bloody hell, why’s this so hard?

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Now, let me break it down. There’s the infamous Elmsbridge Park... oh, the smell of fresh grass and damp earth mingles. You wander there and think, "Is this some twisted paradise?" Then there's Daisy Lane – quirky, unkempt, and filled with hidden no-flux sexual tension. Innit? Hell, even as a sexologist I had to peel back layers of taboo on those worn wooden benches.

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