Skip to main content

Take zat, French Maman!

In a flurry of 'can do' spirit this morning, I decided to take on the Frenchies at their own game.

OK, so I am probably a little too fleshy to properly pass myself off as ze glorious French Maman, plus my hair is far too frizzy, but I can do the whole floaty leetle trapeze dress with witty lace detailing with the best of them. A slicked-back ponytail hides a multitude of bouffy sins. A touch of powder to simulate the non-shiny visage. Have a bit of a tan already so tick on that one. Finish off with one pair of round-toed ballet shoes and I was there, ready to 'zut alors' with the glamorous Gallic hordes at the school gate.

Sadly, it failed miserably. Not one French mother gave me an appoving smile or even flicked their dark sultry glance over my outfit. It was as if I was invisible. Which is all very well when I am dressed in my scumbag Rosbif style rags, but not when I've gone to the considerable effort of tricking myself out in the French femme's national costume.

Hmmm, back to the drawing board. Now, am I brave enough to try to emulate the Glamazon tomorrow?

Comments

carol said…
The worse you look the more likely you are to see people you know. In the US anyway
Anonymous said…
Don't be fooled! French Maman saw you alright - she just blanked the competition! Psychological warfare is their weapon of choice. She probably rushed straightaway to her Beautician for an emergency skin-peel. The Glamazon - beware - she will grab you as her New Best Friend and bore you to death with her inanities. Just be yourself, YLM, and wear your rags with pride!

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…

Champix

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, …