Skip to main content

Notes from a church pew #2: the French maman

Kensington mummies are a strange breed.

The first point of note is that the British are in the minority in my neck of the woods, and secondly, working mothers are practically an endangered species. I have still not quite decided if either of these things are positive.

Kensington mamas are a varied lot. Where each sub-species of Kensington dad are easily recognisable, the mums like to mix it up a bit so as to confuse onlookers. But there are two things that give them away - their BMI and astoundingly high levels of personal grooming.

Kensington mamas can be roughly divided into three main groups; the French mamans, the Italian mamas and the American moms. But for the purpose of today's blog, I will focus on the French maman.

The French maman would rather be dead than seen out and about looking fatter than a twig and as for looking scruffy; Mon Dieu! Quelle horreur! There is no excuse for such a lapse.

French Mamans are moody 99% of the time, which British men put down to them being of a sexy Gallic disposition but is actually due to their souls crying out for croissants and bon-bons; inside those sulky skinny thighs are fat happy ones being slowly starved into submission. FMs do laugh sometimes - a husky yet feminine tinkle which is a truly beautiful thing to hear - but only when they are talking to a handsome man or another less attractive French woman. Otherwise, forget it - you'll be lucky to get a pout.

Immaculate at all times, with glossy hair beaten into submission by a weekly blow dry, subtly polished finger nails and only classic, well-cut clothes allowed to cover her sylph-like form; a combination that on anyone else would be matronly but French maman and her carefully gym honed body manages to pull it off to devastating effect.

French maman is in a league of her own. You may not like her (although when you get to know her you will be surpised at how sweet she can be) but she deserves to be admired. Her incredible self-restraint, the ability to make her children look freshly-pressed at all times and her ingenuity with a silk neck scarf (learning to tie a Hermes scarf in 120 different ways is a coming of age ritual for all French women) must be applauded: all are hard-learned skills passed down from one generation to the next and an essential part of the celebrated French female mystique.

Next week: the Italian Mama


Anonymous said…
You are talking about French Mamans with rich husbands/divorce settlements. The rest are as lardy, slutty and coarse as any English Maman pushing a trolley through Lidl with a rainbow array of kids. Go to any hyper-marche on the outskirts of Paris and look through your green tinted specs - there is the truth - as blemished and downtrodden as the rest of womankind. Keep faith in your Britishness YLM.

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …