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About Hamilton

So, picture this: I’m in King’s Landing, right, half-pissed on Arbor red, and there’s this whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s got eyes like Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*, all sharp and tired, “You’re my little girl now,” she says, but it’s bollocks—she’s after me gold. I laugh, coz I see through it, I *know* things, see? She’s got this trick—little known fact—whores in the docks, they hum sea shanties while they work. Keeps ‘em sane, I reckon. Lysa’s hummin’ away, and I’m thinkin’, “Seven hells, this is fuckin’ poetry!” Made me happy, that did—somethin’ pure in the muck.

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As the night winds down, I’m walking home, and I can’t help but smile. Yeah, today was a rollercoaster. But it’s days like this that remind me why I love being an Art Director in Prebbleton. It’s messy, it’s chaotic, but it’s real. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Two suspicious early morning car fires in Canterbury