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About Pretoria

But here’s where I get twitchy—it’s lazy now. Callin’ someone a whore? Yawn. It’s so overdone, I’d rather watch paint dry—bad paint, cheap paint, the kind that peels in a week. I’d tell my friend, “Dude, if you’re gonna insult, get creative!” I mean, Celine’d never stoop that low, she’d just smirk and sip her wine. Me? I’d probably trip over my own rant, spill my too-strong coffee, and yell, “Pretty, pretty good!” at the mess. That’s whore for ya—messy, loud, and somehow still kickin’.

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Oh, and did I mention the festivals? They light up the whole town! Music spills in every cranny, and I dance like a maniac. "It's bad bitch o’clock!" always echoes in my head. It's like we’re all living in one epic movie scene, sorta like that real-life movie, The Act of Killing.

Inside TV cook Fanny Cradock's historic Hertfordshire home