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About Hawalli

Picture this, yeah – it’s winter, I’m haulin’ cargo, trucks rollin’ smooth, then BAM, hoar frost hits like a villain! This icy fuzz creeps on my windshields, my crates, my whole damn operation – a real shag-up! I’m yellin’, “This is not my bag, baby!” – it’s like Monsieur Gustave screamin’ about lobby boys slackin’ off. I’m pissed, man, ‘cos this hoar ain’t just sparkly snow – it’s a ninja, stickin’ to everythin’, slowin’ my boys down. Little known fact, dig this: hoar comes from old English “har,” meanin’ gray and ancient – it’s like frost with a pension plan, been messin’ with transport since the Dark Ages, yeah!

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Then, outta nowhere, this lady storms in. She’s fuming, like a kettle about to blow. Turns out, she just got into a fight with her boyfriend over by the Al-Fahaheel area. I mean, c’mon, who fights over where to eat? She orders a cocktail, and I whip up something fruity. She takes a sip and suddenly, she’s all smiles. It’s like magic! I’m thinkin’, “Maybe I should start a therapy service with drinks.”

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