Songs of the not-so innocent

Okay, so that last post had a mild "Itna sannata kyun hai bhai?" feel, which I've been encouraged to eschew in favour of a totally believable, "C'mon Barbie, let's go party!" theme. So I'll resume normal services and give some updates from the Gulag , also known in the local idiom as the place I work. The greenhorn putting in his papers was basically the signal for opening the doors to the Augean stables. Within a week, his senior on the account put in her papers citing a shattering of her confidence (her actual words). The girl hired to replace greenhorn number one experienced 2 days - Thursday & Friday, before failing to show up on the subsequent Monday, thereby giving the management a well-manicured middle finger. Meanwhile, another client servicing cretin, who fancied perhaps that he'd signed up for a pleasure cruise, lasted exactly 1 day. I have a vague recollection of him pompously surveying the chaos engulfing this place on the d

Sometimes I will do this.  Visit the blogs of people who are not on my reading list.  Type out the addresses from memory and hit 'Return'.  Wait. Knowing what I certainly know, yet I yearn. Maybe I'll be proved right. That they don't write. Or maybe, that they have. When I see that last post.  And find that it's a 3 year old ghost. I become wistful. With a dash of melancholic, for taste. Wondering why they stopped. Making judgements of lost potential in haste. Could it be that they've moved to another ground? To something like Whatsapp; more convenient, less profound?   Perhaps staid routine claims another writer.  Whose ink is fading, as the page grows whiter.  I'll admit, the thought makes me sad.  Though I know there's no use feeling bad.  So, I'm going to fall back on that old standby; hope. Visit old posts, reminisce and cope. Wonder if the authors will ever rediscover the