When the writing comes out lousy, it’s called Writer’s Blah.

Note: Grab the Bombay Times. Turn to the comics section. It’s Jughead’s line. Me, I’m just a borrower.

I have a new toothbrush. It’s all pink and shiny with a plastic cover on top. And a tongue cleaner behind. Ooh.
My favourite one was purple with bristles that moved. I pressed a button and they went ‘whrrrr!’ and left my teeth all white and sparkly. Boy, brushing was fun.
The big brushes have no imagination. They’re tall and straight and boring. Note: Just because I'm grown up doesn’t mean I like brushing. I need something cheery in the bathroom to convince me that white teeth are important. After all, they’re going to fall anyway once I'm 70, is it really worth the trouble? And I can chew with yellow teeth. Really.
Besides, my dad got it from the US of A. When you’re eight with a tiny eight year old brain, all phoren things are cool.

It’s not raining. Sure, you get a few smattering of raindrops, and delightful gusts of wind, but they’re not Mumbai rains. They aren’t roaring and crashing down and announcing, we’re here now, girl and we’re gonna flood the place so bad, them school idiots will give you days off. Many days off.
Sigh. I miss them.
And the splashing and paper boat sailing. Yes. I used to sail paper boats. In the puddles. By the road. It was fun.

Names matter. Such a lot. L.M. Montgomery is stern. She’s tall and thin with grey hair and glasses. The principal of a convent. Would decidedly disapprove of a certain redhead in a skimpy yellow wincey.

Lucy is a dreamer. She is slender and petite with enormous brown eyes. She isn’t a beauty, but in dreamland, it doesn’t matter. She’s shy and wistful and the girl who is kind and good, but never catches anybody’s attention. She wants to, obviously, but boys and adults, I’ve noticed, never seem to have much sense.

Maud is tomboyish. She’s pretty and untidy and her long, black hair is always ruffled. She’s blunt and honest and stubborn. She always gets all the attention and man, she loves it. Anything remotely girly is scorned. She’s the one who hangs out with the boys. Others may say whatever they like, they’re batty old cats and our girl doesn’t give a damn.

Note: I think so. All mine. Kindly make up your own Lucys and Mauds.

Mumbai is pretty. The way to college is smelly to smell and nice to look at.
When it rains on mud, there’s a muddy smell. Scratch that. Fragrance. When it rains on Trash By The Roadside, there’s a Trash By The Roadside-y smell. Which is bad. Stuff-both-fists-in-your-nostrils bad.
It’s bang by the sea with an amazing view of the Mumbai skyline and at night, the whole thing lights up. And there’s a breeze. And tiny boats with the tricolour fluttering on them. And tinier men fishing. Umm. I love trains.

I hated the last post. No compliment fishing. I swear. But I won't delete it. A bit of bad writing will make the nice bits look nicer. I hope. And yes, this bit of philosophy is borrowed as well. From Captain Jim. From Anne's House of Dreams.

Maybe I should scratch out the Chocoholic and put The Plagarizer. Ooh. Sounds cool.