And her Crimian (Crim as in Zim and ian as in equestrian) counter parts, which have nothing to do with the country of Crimea or the War, either!

Keep in mind this is only the beginning...

Henrietta turned the water off and walked out of the room momentarily only to return with what appeared to be a 50 page manuscript with a folded note attached to it, which it was. She left it conspicuously on the back of the toilet tank and plugged in her blow dryer. Henrietta (or ‘Henny’ as her father had called her for years) switched the lights off for dramatic electric effect, while grasping the blow dryer and climbing into the bathtub. Clumsily, she laid down in the water, her long, black velvet dress and mousy brown hair floating around her, and plunged the dryer into the murky depths beside her. Fumbling for the power switch of the dryer, Henrietta mused on how depressed they would be to lose her. They’d be sorry all right; all their ¹ fault too! Finally, she managed to flick the switch on and she winced, but nothing happened. Cursing, Henrietta threw the dryer into the trashcan while it was still plugged in, which succeeded in only bending the plug into strange bits that would never fit into a rational socket again. Then, she stood up and stepped out of the tub and stalked over to the light switch, which also failed to turn on.

Groping for her manuscript, the sopping Henrietta stomped out of the bathroom, the quintessence of an angered child, and slipped neatly on the now wet tile floor, landing painfully on one knee and sending the manuscript sailing, causing Henrietta to swear to the utmost about electricity, tile floors, soaking black dresses, and the declining state of the world in general.

The day had NOT started well.

I plan to add more of what I've written on the nice lined paper