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But here’s the mad bit—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam keep diaries? True story, mate—little books of punters, rates, weird kinks. Imagine that, eh? Her scribblin’ bout me later—“Tall git, martini breath, decent shag.” Ha! Cracks me up. Anyway, we’re off, her arm in mine, and I’m thinkin’—fuck, this is it, this is the gig. Not just a quick root, but a story, a pulse. “Seize the moment,” *Boyhood* says, and I’m bloody well seizin’ it. Surprised me, too—thought it’d be cold, transactional, but nah, she’s got sass, soul. Makes me grin like a twat.

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Next, I head over to the Motueka River. The view is stunning. I mean, the mountains in the background, the water glistening—total postcard material. I sit on a bench, trying to soak it all in. But then, this group of kids runs by, yelling and laughing. They’re playing some wild game that looks like tag but with a twist. I can’t help but smile. It’s infectious, you know?

Costs climb for restoration of historic Tasman wharf