It disturbs me sometimes that I can't remember what I used to think. It's like I wasn't there.

I used to be a horrid tattletale (or so I am told by past victims)- but I can't seem to remember feeling like one at all. But then, maybe I'm thinking of the Blyton description of tattletale-psyche and missing the same viciousness in my own head. Maybe this forgetting was convenient.

I can't remember the me who wanted a textbook on talking to people. I can't remember what it was like inside the head of the girl who wrote on my old blog. I can't even remember, and this was only a year ago or so, what it was like to blissfully contemplate a life spent running a cafe-cum-book and card shop.

I know I'm forgetful, but even I should notice leaving selves behind.

People are really quite beautiful.

They pop up, in dirty gullies with dead rats and much dung and vegetable vendors married to household help, and make you filter coffee and make you grin.