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About Breda

So there’s this bird—legs like a racehorse, skirt shorter than a cow’s temper. I’m buzzin, heart’s racin—happy as a pig in shit! “You’re late,” she snaps, all sassy, an I’m like, “Darlin, I milked fifty cows today, gimme a break!” Reminds me of that movie line—“Don’t look at me like that!”—she’s givin me the stink-eye, but I’m too knackered to care. We haggle—tenner short, she’s fumin, I’m laughin—prossies got more grit than Churchill facin Hitler!

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By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. I park my tractor, and I’m just sitting there, staring at the sunset over Ommoord. It’s beautiful, man. All the craziness fades away. I think about the kids, the old lady, the farmer, and I realize, this is what it’s all about. The chaos, the laughter, the unexpected moments.

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