petite anglaise

Having written an article for Comment is Free back in April about internet footprints and the danger inherent in leaving personal data all around the internet for future employers/parents-in-law to see, what have I gone and done? Enlarged my trail from its previously modest sparrow-like proportions into an elephant-sized paw print of worrying dimensions, that’s what. A week of enforced inactivity in a Yorkshire village was all it took to unleash my inner 2.0 monster.

The eagle-eyed among you have already noticed the petite myspace link in the sidebar, to your right, along with my facebook profile and associated non-official “fan” site, with its own cafepress merchandise store (I shan’t link to these as they are not my own creations). I’ve been scrobbling away in LastFM and joining groups with names that made me snort my Yorkshire tea down my nose. The only thing I have so far managed to resist – and I must, because it is the internet version of crack cocaine – is twitter. But I fear it is only a matter of time.

Where will it all end? Will I find myself unable to engage in any form of communication which does not involve a keyboard? Will my MacBook become welded to my satin pyjama clad thighs?

I fear for the future.

Do you blog? Are you in Paris on Saturday 9 June? Do we look like the sort of people you would like to spend quality time with?

Details here, including email for signing yourselves up…

So, um, petite in jimjams? Anyone?

Cast your votes here.

And don’t forget my dear friends anna boat (personal) – eek, and Lucy Pepper too in same category, how is one supposed to choose? – jonnyb (UK), Le Blagueur à Paris (expat, writing) and nardac (underappreciated) …

update: results are available for viewing here.

If you have been following this blog for a while, you will be aware of the fact that I am rather irrationally fond of very scientific-sounding French words used to denote common things.

My love of the word podotactile, which can be translated into English with the slightly less elegant “strip along the side of a métro platform that has bumps on that you can feel if you are wearing thin-soled shoes” has already been widely documented.

Peeling the transparent film off a microwave dinner the other day (and yes, I know it’s bad, but believe me, that was one of my better moments, nutritionally, in recent weeks) I was overjoyed to notice that said transparent cover is called an l’opercule, a term which comes from Latin and is also used in neuroscience and botany. Imagine, if you will, that the instructions on your microwave meal asked you to “pull back the operculus”. Would you have any appetite left?

But my favourite new phrase by far is the one used to designate the place where water must be poured into my new steam iron (after old iron was accidentally melted in a freak hob-top incident at the weekend when I tried to cook pasta with a hangover). I give you: l’orifice de remplissage.

I’m looking at it warily right now and I just don’t know if I can.

“Look mummy,” says Tadpole. “I did draw a picture!”

I study the picture dutifully. “Is it a witch?” I say. “Like Meg from Meg and Mog?”

Tadpole shakes her head. “No. It is mummy when she is very fâchée. With cross arms like this.” She demonstrates by putting her hands on her hips.

I try not to show how horrified I am to see myself in this new and disturbing light.

Next week: mummy with a terminal hangover. Which is worse than this.

I have two simultaneous conversations on gmail chat (also known as a three-way) with my two favouritest and best gay friends. The only background information you need to know is that we had lunch at the Trésor prior to one of my recent dates.

zemickelino to me:   rhino and I said a little prayer for you at Notre Dame des Médailles Miraculeuses after we left you yesterday

me to zemickelino:   wha?!?!

me to rhino:   you *didn’t* really say a prayer for my punani in church yesterday? I’m sure Mickelino is winding me up…

rhino to me:   of course we did! It was the Church of Miracles. bit spooky actually

me to rhino:   you are officially on pre-date praying duty from now on

zemickelino to me:   did he have nice fesses?

What would I do without these guys?

In the unexpected letter the person formerly known as “Lover” sent me a couple of weeks ago, one phrase stood out, and I noted it on a green post-it and tacked it onto the wall of my “office” along with all the other incomprehensible scribblings I’ve been collecting. “A pulse of hope.” I liked his turn of phrase: it was one of the first things which drew me to him when we met, two years ago.

What Lover was hoping for will never come to pass, but this week his words lingered in my head and took on a new resonance, albeit in relation to someone else.

For the first time in months I spent a few days in the throes of the most deliciously terrifying jittery tingly melty dizzy hopefulness. I’m at a loss to describe what it was about my new friend that caused me to close my eyes in public places and try to conjure up a mental image of his face. To stop dead in my tracks and smile or blush at the memory of something he’d said. To put my index finger to my lips, which felt different somehow. The feeling came out of nowhere. Knocked me off kilter.

Hanging onto his back as his scooter tore along rue Piat, I inhaled the scent of his skin, his clothes. I sipped a Kir in Lou Pascalou, too busy looking at the laughter lines around his dark eyes, his thick eyelashes, the sprinkling of grey in his dark hair, to actually concentrate on what he was saying. Little things got to me: the way he parted my hair with his fingers when I tried to hide behind it. The way he laughed and accused me of playing the damsel in distress when I fumbled with the strap of my motorcycle helmet and mutely gestured to him to help me out.

At the end of every date I craved more. I knew – the way you just do sometimes – that I could fall for this man. Fall hard. And the knowledge left me in a constant and utterly incapacitating state of joyful-fearful panic. Was I reading the situation the way I should? Was I setting myself up for a resounding disappointment? I marvelled at my own ability to let myself be side-swiped all over again. To shrug off the cynicism I’ve been cowering behind for months on end.

To pulse with hope.

And then came the “you’re very special, and I love spending time with you, but I don’t think I have the ability to fall in love, and I’m horribly afraid of hurting you” speech. Which doesn’t sound any better in French, believe me.

Last night I lay wide awake by his side, biting my lip, listening to him talking in his sleep, wearing the t-shirt he’d so thoughtfully provided (and trying not to feel disappointed that I’d worn silk underwear for nothing). I felt the pulse of hope fading, fading, fading; I tasted metallic blood on my lips; I smarted with regret and disappointment.

And yet still I persist in believing I’d rather live through occasional periods of deliciously terrifying jittery tingly melty dizzy hopefulness than settle for less.

“Mummy, would you like to have coconuts cups on your nipples?”

I ponder this for a moment. We are lying in Tadpole’s bed, our heads under the covers, it is 7.15 am, and these rather surreal words are the first my daughter has uttered this morning. Suddenly realisation dawns. Which is a blessing. Because there is nothing worse at the moment than the wrath I incur when Tadpole says something and I don’t immediately twig what she is talking about.

“You mean like the Barbie dolls in the window at Zoë Bouillon?” Zoë Bouillon is a soup café on rue Rebeval that we occasionally walk past. I am proud to have remembered this: last time we marvelled at the window display of oddly dressed Barbie dolls was at least a fortnight ago.

“Yes! Like in the potage shop!” Tadpole is delighted that we are on the same wavelength this morning. “Or, would you like to wear flowers stuck on your nipples instead? That might be more prettier. We could stick some with glue.”

Hmmm, I think to myself. How about neither? Because I’m not a Barbie doll, or some sort of burlesque act, and it’s 7.15 am? But instead I say “I don’t think I need any coconut cups or flowers, right now, because I’m wearing a T-shirt, but maybe another time… because I’m sure it would be very pretty.” Tadpole nods, satisfied with my reasoning, then frowns a puzzled frown.

“Mummy? Why do some people say ‘priddy’ and not pretty.” This is what comes of exposing my daughter to Disney CD’s, I think to myself.

“You mean like the little mermaid? Well, she speaks American.” I try to convey by my intonation that this is a kind of inferior language with which I would rather Tadpole didn’t sully her lips.

“Do princesses always speak Merican?”

“Some princesses do. And our friend Meg does too.” Tadpole considers this exciting new piece of information for a moment. Meg is popular in our household, so I’ve probably just shot myself in the foot. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tadpole adopted an American accent from this moment on. It is therefore something of a relief when she opens her mouth and continues speaking in her usual blend of Yorkshire/RP/French.

“When I grow into a big lady,” she says decisively, “I’m going to speak Merican and be just like Meg.” I raise my eyebrows, as an image of Meg trying to smuggle bottles of beer into a nightclub inside her tights springs unbidden into my mind. I suppose there could be worse role models.

“But,” she adds with a grimace, “NOT with the same hair.”

Am I the last person to find gizoogle?

I knock at the door. Mr Frog answers, wearing his bathrobe. There is no sign of Tadpole, and I raise my eyebrows and look around with a bewildered expression. I have yet to partake of that important first cup of coffee of the day, so verbal minimalism is de rigueur.

Mr Frog leads me into his bedroom, where Tadpole is prostrate on her bed, wearing pyjamas and an extremely wide smile.

“She’s still in bed?” I shriek, “but we have to be at school in twenty minutes! It’s the thing where they are running in the park today, the thing I’m supposed to be supervising.” The thing which seemed like oh such a good idea when I signed up, but coming as it did after a bumper celebratory drinksfest (with some of the nicest people you could ever hope to meet in honour of Anna’s birthday) I was considerably less enthusiastic when it involved me hauling my sorry carcass out of bed at 7.15 this morning.

Mr Frog smiles and shrugs in that very expressive French way he has; one twitch of his shoulders worth a couple of dozen words: well, you know, she’s tired, look at her, she doesn’t really want to get up, and anyway it’s not my problem because you’re the one taking her to school anyway, he he…

Meanwhile. I. Pace.

“What’s got into you today anyway?” says Mr Frog. “You’re making me dizzy. Look at the state of you. Did you stay out last night or something?” I feel the colour rising to my cheeks.

“What? No! Même pas!”

“So what was that thing on your gmail chat status about a date?”

Note to self: must stop being so informative on gmail chat. The whole world may not need to know that I have just picked out all of the chocolate flakes from a box of Nestlé Fitness breakfast cereal, or even (on a more cryptic note) that I have all my bases “uncovered”. And if they do, I should probably do this on twitter, which Mr Frog hasn’t heard of yet.

“Ah, so, um, you saw that, did you? Yes, well. I might have had a drink or two. A very nice drink or two. That’s all.”

Mr Frog smiles a knowing smile. “Well, good for you.”

When I get to school, the running thing is cancelled due to filming in the park. I try not to look too crestfallen at the idea of being able to go back home to bed.

I have it on good authority that about 480 copies of this wonderful compendium of funnies from the British blogosphere (including my own rather smutty entry) have now been sold, with the proceeds going to Comic Relief.

But wouldn’t it be so much more fun if we could say 500?

Go on. You know you want to!

And yes, I do like to wear my “you’re fired” t-shirt as pyjamas.

This post is dedicated to Uncle Norman, author of this rather sparsely punctuated comment on my last “post”: “Stick to writing about your kid and being shagged in work time leave real life to the grown ups.”

So, I’ve written about my daughter, which is a start, and just leaves his second request. Anyone fancy distracting me from my deadline today? Conveniently, I’m working on my bed at the moment (although one end is currently propped up with Le Petit Robert.) So?

Tadpole’s latest obsession is with Lauren Child’s Charlie and Lola.

After the prolonged agony of her Dora the Explorer phase, hearing Tadpole trying to mimic characters with proper English accents comes as a profound relief. And there is something about the way Lola is drawn, with unruly hair falling across mischievous eyes, which reminds me of Tadpole.

The books have names like “I am not Sleepy and I will not go to Bed” or “I am absolutely too small to go to School” or “My Wobbly Tooth must not Ever Never Fall Out”, and cleverly deal with a lot of the issues toddlers have, like having their hair cut (Princess No Knots) and eating vegetables (which seem to go down a whole lot better when you say they are from Jupiter).

If I might put in a couple of requests though, Lauren, would you consider writing “I will not Ever Never wear trousers to school” or “I am absolutely too small to do my poo poos in the toilet”?

Our latest game is to speak in the style of Charlie and Lola – I am, of course, always cast in the role of Charlie – her sensible but wily older brother – and usually end up saying “but Lola!” rather a lot.

Yesterday Tadpole came out with the following gem, which still has me sniggering this morning:

“I am absolutely ever never good. And sometimes I am naughty”

Tadpole's own composition/improvisation – and no, I don't understand all the lyrics either.