revised, now it's not your fault you dont gvet it righ, because without feedback its impossible, here is m suggestion.. it setsa tone, of the narrature, the ugly Australian, he calls. himself...
I find myself in the bustling kitchen of The Loft cafe, a retired roadie turned kitchen hand, retired because i am gun ho, retired because i dont' give a fuck about safety, they say -savoring the stark contrast between my past life and this new gig. No more endless stacks of plates and cutlery to wash. Instead, I'm juggling tasks like unpacking stock, managing deliveries, and even the occasional tomato slicing or orange peeling.
I'm ont he 7th floor, peeling potatos and joe, the head chef, sahys, aren't' the views amazing.. now thats better and more readable than:As I navigate through the cafe, my gaze is invariably drawn to the breathtaking view of Melbourne from the seventh floor. "Never get sick of this view," Joe, our head chef, remarks. He's a few years older than me, with a mortgage or two to his name. Joe wants me to stay for four months, and we seal the deal with a firm handshake. That's my commitment to him and the Lebanese owner, who keeps a vigilant eye on our drink consumption.