My entry?

Memories. Rubbish. My memories are broken. Bits and pieces. My memories are the smell of green tomatoes. Singing 'Out in the garden, each fine day.' How pleased I am with myself and my bouncy ball. And do you like India? 'I don't know, there are mosquitoes here.' And 'Dadda finished, wash my bum' or 'Mammaaa going to the Chandys' house.''Be back by six.''Does that mean I need to be here by six or leave there at six?' Picnics on the roof and all girls club, boys stink. Boys stink a little less. Date really stinky boy.Alone. And I have no stories to tell only bits and pieces. Call it memory, remembering.Forgetting.Forget it.