I was recently sitting with a friend who had moved due to a separation and had to downsize significantly as a result. With the reduction in living space came the question of what to do with all that stuff that has accumulated over the years.

I can't remember the exact time, but sometime around my 14th birthday, my mother dragged me to have my carpal bone x-rayed to determine my final expected height. The result was devastating, at least figuratively. 185cm!

When I first saw the man I spontaneously wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I was wearing a baggy undershirt...

So here I am. phew! "Love, Anja" somehow sounds like everything and nothing. Which is good at first, because it opens up a whole cornucopia of possibilities. I can now write what I want and how I want, because 1. I don't have an editor-in-chief (I'm myself), no editor-in-chief (me too) and no CvD (you can guess... ;-)) and 2. sets a personal column with such a name hardly limits thematically. It just has to fit the context to some extent.

There's nothing like a cultivated soliloquy. You can chat with yourself so wonderfully about things that are going through your head without being constantly interrupted or having to explain or justify yourself for all the many thoughts and questions that you think and ask.