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?