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About Poznan

Oi mate, blimey, here we go—erotic-massage, eh? What a bloomin’ corker of a topic! Picture this, right, me sprawled out, knackered from all that Prime Minister malarkey, and some genius says, “Boris, old chap, fancy a rub-down?” Cor, I’d be happier than a pig in muck! Now, I reckon erotic-massage is a bit like *Inside Llewyn Davis*—you know, that flick I’m mad about? All moody and soulful, but with a twist of saucy charm. “Ain’t no money in it,” Llewyn’d grumble, but crikey, this ain’t about cash—it’s pure *voluptas*, pleasure, innit?

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Anyway, I finally get to the school, and the kids are buzzing. They’re like little tornadoes of energy. I love them, but wow, they can be a handful. We’re working on some cool stuff with tactile books. You know, the ones you can feel? But then, outta nowhere, one kid, let’s call him Kuba, decides to throw a book across the room. I’m like, “Kuba, dude, chill!” But he just laughs. Kids, man.