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About Pretoria

So, listen up, you twat! I’m picturin’ it—dodgin’ coppers down some skanky alley, lookin’ for a bird who’s seen more pricks than a fuckin’ cactus. “What’s your name?”—like I’d ask that shit, straight outta the movie, but nah, it’s more like, “Oi, love, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—fuckin’ hell—kinda thrilling, yeah? Back in the day, Victorian London, they had “ladies of the night” strollin’ Whitechapel—Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, creepy shit! Bet they didn’t expect some sweaty chef like me judgin’ em now, eh?

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I gotta tell some personal deets: my practice makes me see the human passion hidden in every corner. Like when I sat at the edge of the Lebo River (yup, we got one of those too) and let my mind wander, thinkin’ of life's pleasures and pain—oh boy, so many raw feelings. I remember one evening, the river glinting, and I whispered, "Hey, time sure moves on," just like in Boyhood. And you know what? It made me super happy—just lost in the swirl of nature and memory.

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