i can still smell the orange squash

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I spent the night fidgeting, keeping my beloved nana {with the long-garden} awake with my restless legs. Now we're catching a bus into London, one of three double deckers taking us from the suburbs of Romford to the centre of the capital city. The orange squash lives in a ginormous brown medicine bottle. My beautiful and crazy nana {with the long-garden} smells of compact powder. It's *her* smell, evoking intense memories, even now, twenty years after her death. Her wonderful East London accent makes me giddy; she's a mystery to me. Her laughter is contagious, yet her eyes are unhappy. Bright eyes. Burning like fire. Now so pale. This is her song. Amazingly graceful. Amazing Grace. But not Grace ... Gladys. Diana and Charles got hitched last week. Confetti litters the ground around St Paul's Cathedral, tiny little bits of blue and pink paper, cut into tiny little horseshoes and bells. I gaze in wonder. I wish my name were India like one of their tiny little bridesmaids. How exotic. I drink my orange squash at Trafalgar Square, whilst enjoying the view of young men and women sporting spiky hair in all colours of the rainbow. I want to be like them when I'm grow'd up. Confident and indifferent. Unique. I don't even like orange squash. {I wrote this in a lesson this morning. Yep. I work hard.}