It is terribly cliched to talk about time flying, seeping like sand through fingers, isn't it. Time hasn't so much flown or seeped as it has infiltrated my room like bacteria.
A patent red bag plonked contemptuously in front of my bedroom door. Within this ignoble pouch pictures from as far as ten years - ten! ago.
A haphazard collection of photos, each year revealing a little less youthful blossom, a little more roundedness of face, a little more hardening of heart.
If that I were that young girl again.
