Roadkill On Memory Lane
Did you ever hear the call of memory? That screeching wail of nostalgia, like tires on tar and you couldn’t help looking back, wondering if anybody died
and realising it wasn’t you?
Did you ever hear the call of memory? That screeching wail of nostalgia, like tires on tar and you couldn’t help looking back, wondering if anybody died
and realising it wasn’t you?
I spend most of my waking day at work. It is my home and the holder of my identity. How can the space not be important?
I was interviewed by BlogAdda. It feels a little odd to blow my own trumpet, but hell if this was offline media, I’d have clipped and filed it away. :-p So here goes my first online media mention. And yes, I’m jumping up and down. 😀
When I was a kid, the apartment two floors above us was occupied by two ladies. They were both teachers. One of them was tall and stern-looking. The other one was short, roly-poly and generally jovial as you would expect someone of such a build to be. Both of them…
Friday* evening is when the city comes alive with a vengeance. As if it were sleeping the rest of the time. But Fridays are a frenzy of partying and drinking and laughing too loud. In a frantic attempt to drown out the panic of life running out faster than we…
I keep getting asked why I want commitment if it’s such a terrible thing. My reasons may not be all deeply soulful or romantic or even honorable.