I’m a girl who sincerely believes that a day should be stretched to at least 36 hours. Because in 24 hours I simply can’t fit everything I love: music, poetry, cooking, singing, and about a dozen other “why not” items. In short, creative chaos is my middle name.

I write poetry when the muse visits. And she, the rascal, loves to show up at 3 a.m. or while I’m doing the dishes. Then I run to scribble down rhymes on anything at hand napkins, phone receipts, sometimes my own hand. It turns out romantic, with a touch of absurdity, and that’s wonderful.

And of course, I sing. Everywhere: in the shower, in the car, in the supermarket by the cereal aisle. If you hear a slightly off‑key but very emotional note somewhere that’s probably me. I dream of forming my own little jazz band, but for now my main listener is my cat, and he seems thrilled (or maybe just hungry).

I love music. I play instruments with so much enthusiasm that my neighbours have started guessing the tunes by the vibration of the walls. I’m no virtuoso, but if you give me any chord, there’s an 80% chance I’ll improvise something heartfelt (the other 20% I’m just tuning the instrument, don’t mind me).

Cooking is my culinary adventure. I can turn plain pasta into a masterpiece, or accidentally add salt instead of sugar and pass it off as a brand‑new signature recipe. The key is to serve it with a confident face then everyone praises it (or is too scared to offend). But honestly, my pies are love, tested by time and calories.