I write many things in my mind, in the course of one day — when I am enjoying my pretty cup of tea or coffee, while I am swimming laps (my self-imposed penance for the sin of too much rice or cake), when I have little conversations with my five-year-old nephew Valiant who is Superman one day, and Mr. Bean the next. I have all these little stories I want to put on paper, while I am stuck in horrendous traffic and am too tired to even complain about it, when I see pretty flowers and kind faces, when I talk to my strong and very funny mother over lunch or dinner.
When those moments come by, I do this happy little dance inside of me — “There! That will be what I will write about for next Sunday’s column. Done!” But then I finish my tea, get out of traffic, make a phone call, talk to many other people, go into a meeting here and there, those stories get muddled, lost in the day. By the time I want to remember them (but can’t), I begin to wonder why they have to happen when I am pen-less, and why I never get around to typing some of them into my phone in the first place, in the hope that should I even remember to search for those broken sentences, it will trigger something that will afford me the chance to pick up where I left off.