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My name is not Nastenka. But then, I was also not born in April. My birthday is on July the tenth, if you must know. (Am fond of Bernachon chocolates, Hermes scarves and Acqua di Parma. Feel free to shower me with gifts.)

I am one hundred and eighteen years old. And somehow cannot age.

People are funny things. They cannot help it. I wish they could. But they cannot, or will not. What ever the case is, the fact remains: People are funny things. So, the purpose of this diary is to document my adventures and misadventures while being subjected to human contact. Cross your fingers, give us a kiss, and wish me luck.

n.

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