petite anglaise

I will return. In a week or so. (Tadpole and I are fine, please don’t worry!)

The air hostess motions us to a different seat, as our fellow passengers have unanimously ignored the allocations clearly marked on their tickets, with the result that mine and Tadpole’s have already been taken.

There is a ripple of laughter at my wake. Tadpole, whom I imagined to be trotting obediently behind me, has found a bearded surrogate grandad she likes the look of, seated herself by his side, much to his amusement, and is now engrossed in fastening her seatbelt.

I hasten to retrieve her, somewhat red-faced, and plonk her unceremoniously onto the window seat.

“Mummy?”

“Yees?”

“Can you hear my wee wee?”

I note her glassy eyed expression, one which I am familiar with, as our family bathroom had mirror tiles on the back of the bathroom door. Tadpole and I may not look alike, but sometimes, fleetingly, I see one of my own smirks or grimaces play across her face.

A shadow falls over us: a businessman is examining his ticket with a puzzled air. I look up, prepare to explain, wearily, that the entire aircraft has been subjected to an impromptu game of musical chairs.

I am, however, struck dumb by Tadpole’s next move.

“Mummy! Mummy!” she exclaims, painful, clamping fingers grabbing the front of my t-shirt. “Look! I found your nipples! They all pointy!”

I cast around for the button which will trigger my ejector seat.

In vain.

I choose my outfit, my undergarments with care, because I know from experience that a drink, with him, will lead to much, much more.

In the bar, I bask in the glow of his attention, happy in this moment, knowing full well it will be fleeting.

He seems most comfortable recounting anecdotes, in that theatrical way of his. His stories seem to form part of a cloak he draws around himself; a shield which I don’t even attempt to penetrate. Superficiality is an integral part of the unspoken pact between us.

I lie in bed, his sleeping body curled around mine, his arm around my waist, marvelling that someone can be so close, skin against mine, but simultaneously seem so remote, so inaccessible.

When we part the next day and I hear the words I fully expected to hear - “well, I guess I’ll see you in a month, when I get back” - I feel a twinge of something I was determined not to feel.

A brief pang of remorse that I may have been selling little pieces of myself to the lowest bidder.

A New Order obsessed fifteen year old is still trapped somewhere inside this thirty-something body: I will never cease to be a sucker for an old school synth.

Which goes some way, but by no means all, to explaining why instead of sleeping right now, I am listening to some freshly downloaded Tiga on my headphones with the bass turned all the way up, revelling in the richly layered synths of “High School” and wishing I could be on a dancefloor, eyes closed, skin tingling, letting the sound wash over me.

This petite anglaise wants to go clubbing. Soon. To let out all of that pent-up naughtiness fizzing beneath the surface. The only ingredient lacking at the present time is willing, like-minded partners in crime (as I can’t exactly ask Mr Frog and his gang any longer, can I?). Any readers who might be partial to electronica in the Vitalic/Tiga/Miss Kittin vein, feel free to drop me a line at the usual address.

I am having another identity crisis. My tenth of the day so far. At various junctures I have been required to pretend to be Big Ears, Sly the Goblin, a Gruffalo, Mrs Goggins, Tinky Winky and Sleeping Beauty.

“No!” says Tadpole, firmly, “You’re Boots and I’m Dora l’exploratrice.”

“Okaay,” I reply, “well, if I’m Boots now, and not a fairy princess, maybe I should take off my tiara?”

We have been wearing our matching hers and hers plastic tiaras for quite some time. Mine is actually quite a useful device for keeping my hair out of my face whilst doing jigsaws.

“Yes, put this on now,” Tadpole concurs, handing me more suitable headgear.

We practice our high fives, apparently something which Dora and Boots do in every episode, and I try to muster up some enthusiasm and join in with her cries of “we did it! C’est gagné!” Only the initiated will understand the power of that godforsaken cartoon and its ability to brainwash our children. Quite frankly, it scares me.

Tadpole’s attention thankfully turns to her box of books, and I slink quietly off to the kitchen to do some washing up. It’s funny how attractive housework can become when the alternative is play doh. Or fuzzy felts.

There is a drriiiing at the doorbell. I grab my purse and peep through the spyhole. It is the pizza delivery boy bearing our nutritious dinner. And I note, to my satisfaction, that they have sent the tastiest one. Handsome, but a little on the young side.

Under the circumstances, I am very impressed with pizza delivery boy’s stoic professionalism. Attempting to seem unfazed, despite my extreme discomfiture when I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror, I hand him an extra large tip to buy his silence.

Every day I don my mask and go about my business. On good days, the happiness is not merely skin deep, it wells up from the very core of my being. I smile with my lips, my eyes and my heart.

On bad days the cheerfulness is forced and brittle, a thin veneer so easily shattered, my smile almost indistinguishable from a grimace.

On in between days I flit between the two states, one second positive and confident; the next casting around for something, anything, to break my fall.

People tell me I’m supposed to be revelling in this single state. Making the most of the time I have alone to form deeper friendships, give more of myself to my daughter, to learn how to be simply me. Undiluted, uncompromised, no longer bending to the will of a partner.

There are days when all this rings true and the world seems such an intoxicating place. When uplifting music on my iPod will make me smile in the métro at no-one in particular; when I want to hug myself with childish glee. Ahead of me lie inviting blank pages just begging to be covered with lurid, bold strokes.

There are days when everything feels utterly pointless if there is no special someone to share things with. Someone who hangs on my words. Someone who holds me tightly and buries his face in my hair. Someone who cares deeply about what is going on inside this head of mine. Someone to whom I can entrust my soul for safe keeping.

The mad social whirl, the party clothes and negligent new underwear are just pathetic ruses. I use artifice to try to trick myself into forgetting what is really lacking. I feed on superficial pleasures to fill the void.

I may be fooling everyone else.

“Switch me onto standby mode,
Until someone presses play”

Happy Violentine - Miss Kittin

Mr Frog and I sit in comfortable silence, devouring our Chinese takeaway. Tadpole lies sleeping in the next room. Finding myself at a loose end on my night off, I slipped across the road for a chat. Inevitably, he and I start comparing Tadpole anecdotes, as we are wont to do. We generally end up trying to outdo one another’s stories, which brings my naturally competitive streak out to play.

For my opening shot, I describe the picture Tadpole drew of a tortoise that morning on her magic drawing board. “It was fantastic - totally lifelike, with a patterned shell. Even if it did have six or seven legs…” I wish I had omitted the last part, but it’s too late now. Mr Frog silently reaches for his new camera, a victorious smile playing about his lips, and proceeds to show me a photo of Tadpole’s perfect rendition of Brian the snail from the Magic Roundabout, complete with antennae poking through hat at the required jaunty angle.

Mr Frog: un point
petite: nul points

I skip the yellow teeth anecdote, which still smarts a little, and instead recount how Tadpole reacted to the sight of blossom drifting down from the trees which line the park on Monday morning: “Mummy,” she cried, “it looks just like confetti!”

“Oh that, yes, she said it in French this morning too,” Mr Frog replies, “on dirait des confettis…” Then, with a faux casual air: “Did I tell you that my mum taught her how to recite the whole alphabet last week?”

I wince, knowing that there is no way I can top that one without inventing something. And even I wouldn’t stoop so low as to fabricate a Tadpole anecdote.

Mr Frog: deux points
petite: nul points

I opt for a change of tack. “It’s such a shame you couldn’t make it for lunch in Belleville on Sunday,” I lament, “she got sooo excited watching a Chinese boy - he must have been about her age - eating with chopsticks. She fiddled around with hers for ages - they were massive, and the slippery kind that even I have trouble with - and I couldn’t believe it when she actually managed to pick up some chicken holding them in one hand. Half the restaurant applauded…”

The only innocent little embellishment in that sentence was the applause. Honestly. I mean, I clapped, but I’m not sure whether anyone else actually noticed.

“Yeah, I was really sorry to miss that. The photo you sent me on my mobile was really cute,” he replies, bashfully, “…but I really was far too hanged over when you texted me on Sunday…”

Tadpole competition forgotten, I quiz Mr Frog about where he goes on these long nights out of his, and with whom. In the process of easing myself back into the Paris social scene after a prolonged absence, I am curious as to which bars and clubs he frequents with his friends. I felt so out of touch the other day when I realised that the Pariscope magazine no longer has a miniature “Time Out” section inside (and probably hasn’t for several years). My confidence as a seasoned Parisienne was severely dented and hasn’t yet recovered.

Mr Frog namedrops several places I have never heard of, and I grow wistful. Just in time, I manage to prevent myself from asking whether I couldn’t tag along one evening. We are so at ease in one another’s company, that sometimes I forget that it might actually be weird to witness the father of my child flirting and chatting up girls.

And even if he didn’t mind, imagine how it could cramp his style.

“Yeah, I have a two year old daughter. Her mum and I are separated. Actually, that’s my ex over there, chatting up the dark-haired guy…”

I hear the creak of a door, followed by a pattering of bare feet on the floorboards. Pulling the bedclothes up to my chin, I snap my eyes hastily closed, as per the usual morning ritual, to preserve Tadpole’s illusion that she is responsible for waking me.

A hand softly grazes my cheek, and I prepare myself for the habitual “WAKEYWAKEYMUMMY!”, the volume of which never ceases to amaze me. Such a loud voice from such a small pair of lungs surely goes against all the laws of physics.

Today however the ritual appears to have changed. Instead tiny fingers are exploring my face. My mouth twitches, involuntarily, but I keep my eyes firmly closed, hoping to prolong the moment for as long as I possibly can.

A finger traces the curve of my eyebrow.

“Mummy got lovely eyebrows,” a Tadpole voice mutters, softly.

There is a feather light touch on my lower lip.

“Mummy got beautiful lips,” she whispers.

I bask in the glow of her unconditional love. Even if I know she is only repeating things I say to her on a regular basis, because I simply can’t help myself and refer to her as my beautiful princess at least ten times a day, her flattery is still music to my ears.

My mouth is slightly ajar, and a digit ventures inside to probe my front teeth. I deliberate about whether to make Tadpole jump by gnawing on her finger, pretending to bite.

“Mummy have very pretty yellow teeth,” she continues.

“YELLOW?” I splutter, the spell irrevocably broken, all pretence of sleep brusquely abandoned. “NO! Mummy’s teeth are white!”

Tadpole is unconvinced. “Nooo. Not white, they yellow,” she maintains, stubbornly, “just like your hair.”

I resolve to give up tea and coffee and invest in some heavy duty whitening strips. The truth hurts. Especially, it seems, from the mouths of babes.

The teeth-grittingly cheerful chime of my mobile phone (Mr Frog laid claim to the alarm clock, and the coffee machine, and I haven’t got around to replacing either) awakes me from a deep, dreamless slumber and I groan theatrically, playing to an invisible audience.

Thankfully I didn’t overdo it the night before, limiting myself to a couple of sedately sipped cocktails with a new friend; heading home soon after the clock struck midnight. This morning sees the return of the Tadpole, after a week long holiday spent with her grandparents in Besançon. Moderation was a necessity: I will need my wits about me today.

A family of moths seems to have taken up residence in my stomach, and I realise to my own amazement that I am nervous about being reunited with my own daughter. Not only are my nerves jangling, but I am also aware of a unpleasant, needling sensation of guilt. The fact is, I pretty much forgot Tadpole’s very existence this past week, slipping effortlessly back into the skin of the girl I used to be, long before she came along. I became re-acquainted with this long lost me, a girl who followed her every selfish whim, who threw on her party clothes and headed out on the town with no fear of having to deal with both a toddler and a hangover the morning after.

How I cherished every second of my temporary freedom. First, there was Nice. Leisurely meals and long drawn out evening drinks, all the while shooting the breeze with my traveling companion, who I now consider a firm friend. Hours spent hypnotised by the gentle tapping sound of waves against the pebbly shore, the sun teasing my cheeks, as I searched patiently for the smoothest, most perfect pebble to take home in my pocket. Not glancing at my watch, living to no-one else’s agenda. Upon my return to Paris, outings to bars with friends, to the cinema, an evening at home with boy plus take-away sashimi, and all that it entailed.

I hadn’t telephoned Tadpole during all this time. Not once.

I justified this neglect to myself by saying that as she doesn’t really show much interest in phone conversations, it can be a somewhat frustrating, pointless exercise. Took shelter behind the excuse that it still feels rather awkward speaking to the ex-in-laws. But the truth of the matter was that I simply wasn’t missing my daughter, and feared that if I did call, that might change. Dared not risk tainting my enjoyment of the here and now.

So here I am, catapulted back from a carefree parallel universe into a weekend of full-time motherhood. On the menu: an Easter egg hunt in the gardens of the Musée Rodin, a baby swimmers session, lunch in a Chinese restaurant in Belleville en tête à tête (our new Sunday ritual, involving much hilarity with chopsticks). Possibly some finger painting, if the weather is inhospitable. Pleasures of a radically different kind.

It’s not that I prefer one state to the other. Simply that being petite the single girl one moment, then petite the mother the next takes some adjusting to. I now live two parallel lives, which rarely overlap.

The appointed hour is close, so hastily I wash the scent of bar smoke from my hair, remove the traces of last night’s makeup from around my eyes, take a deep breath and head out into the street.

As I thrust my keys into the pocket of my jeans, my fingers close around a smooth pebble.

Can you simply make a decision that you won’t form a deeper attachment to someone? To say that you want nothing more than witty conversation and lighthearted physical proximity? A fling. Uncomplicated fun.

Because I haven’t had chance to get used to this vibrant single life of mine and all the new friendships and opportunities it has to offer. Because I’m finding I take a selfish pleasure in living only for Tadpole and myself, taking no one else into account day to day.

Because it’s much too soon to allow anyone to slip inside the invisible circle I have drawn around myself. Too soon to let the firm ground beneath my feet shake and tilt. Because even though, on the surface, I feel lighter, stronger, more whole than I have in a long time, I am still conscious of a soft, vulnerable centre. Unwilling to test the limits of my new found strength.

Because I’m convinced that, flitting from city to city, this elusive boy seeks no ties.

Wandering around Nice, taking in the opulence of the hilltop villas from the vantage point of an open topped bus, hair buffeted by the wind, cheeks warmed by the hazy sun, tiny details kept insinuating their way into my head. The way his voice changes when he smokes a cigarette. Dark chocolate eyes. The bar where we drank jus de gingembre until the owner chivvied us out of the door, when suddenly we realised chairs were stacked on tables around us and not a soul remained.

And so I shook my head vigorously to clear it, banish those unbidden thoughts, and turned to face my travelling companion.

Just in case you are wondering, or cursing my bone idleness, or poised to demand a full refund for your kind paypal donation, I feel it is only fair to warn you that petite anglaise is officially de-camping to Nice until further notice (well, until Wednesday evening) and will be computerless - unless the lady with the famous chin can let me use her laptop for a few seconds - and therefore not be able to write much/at all.

In a nutshell - the blog meet up thing was very lovely, as usual, and I managed not to fall off my chair/stool, to find a suitable candidate for the position of gay best friend (a must have for any single girl, oh so very Sex and the City) and to top off all those lovely cocktails with a damn fine falafel in the rue des Rosiers. A perfect evening, in short. Thank you to the twenty or so of you who came. We will do it again soon. Most definitely.

With an hour to while away before meeting the bank manager, I decide to take a stroll down memory lane and take in some of my old haunts. The weather is, in turn, cloudy and menacing, sunny and optimistic. Wandering around my old quartier is likewise bittersweet.

There are things which make me smile knowingly - grateful for their constancy. The makeshift sign in the traiteur’s shop - proudly boasting that once again, this year, they are the national champions “dans la fabrication du fromage de tête!”, for example. I beg you, please do not enlighten me as to what “fromage de tête” is, it’s one of those things I’d rather die not knowing. I fear it has more to do with heads than cheese, and that’s as far as I’m willing to let my mind venture.

A few paces further, nostrils teased by the pungent aroma of spit roasting chickens, I see the butcher’s assistant and note with amusement his familiar (drawn on) moustache with fanciful curlicues. He calls out a jovial “Bonjour Mademoiselle” as I pass, and I silently thank him for not saying Madame today.

Rue de la Roquette: the location of my first Parisian chez moi, crammed full of ghosts, mice and the odd cockroach. I see my younger self meandering tipsily homewards in the early hours, blissfully unaware of the existence of Guy Georges. A carefree, reckless me, buying fresh croissants at 5.30 am after a night dancing at the Rex club; pupils swollen to the size of saucers. A less jaded me, striding out into the city armed with my guidebook, determined to explore every inch of the city on foot.

I pass my laundrette (immortalised in the film Chacun cherche son chat) where girls sit flicking idly through magazines, while the warmth and hum of spin cycles lulls them into a pleasant torpor.

Glancing at my watch, I am startled out of my rêverie and hasten to retrace my steps towards the bank. I don’t have enough time to venture along rue Richard Lenoir, to the old apartment Mr Frog and I shared opposite the Gymnase Japy, where Tadpole was conceived.

But I’ll be back.