Froggy is playing princess today. She has a bad head, a fact she sleeps away, and a worse headache, a fact that's robbed her sleep. And she is feeling unusual glee. Pink stars in her groggy head, little silly smiles here and there, a sniff and watery eyes, winking music in her feverish feet. A pinch of memories, flirting. Now with her dreams, now with her whines, a swishy mushy Tra La La La.

She rubs her feet against the bad black road. Blinks at the dusk first, the dust then. A slouching battered bus grunts, coughs and spatters to a halt. Froggy licks the grime off her lips, rubs her eyes. Just then, a little starry dust. Off silky hot afternoons, off parched roads and guffawing buses. Off days lived, days hidden with the favourite doll with torn clothes and painted white face. The croaking, giggling, raucous roads to there. Where froggy craned her neck, chewed her lips and just caught a little sun, a little lazy breeze and then some. Wishes, well, galloped away. God knows where. And she kept returning. To a little sun, a little grumpy breeze and a doped sigh. The road runs through it. It that froggy remembers, forgets, giggles and grimaces away. Froggy licks her lips again. Fidgets with her fingers. Dumb, dumb, dumb. And feels good.

Froggy wants back. The red balloons, the old black piano in a blue school room, screeching shoes, ribbons and plaits. It's just that the balloons leer. They have grown up. Huh.