2006 June « petite anglaise

June 12, 2006

weekender

Filed under: good time girl, single life — petiteanglaise @ 9:50 pm

Thursday – “The Stripper Who Came to Tea”

The doorbell rings, and Tadpole shrieks with delight, always ridiculously pleased to welcome a new visitor. At the door, an elfin slip of a girl with a rucksack twice her own body weight. And a laptop bag. Definitely a blogger. Hot, slightly flustered: it’s Mimi in Paris!

We eat. We drink. We wait impatiently for another blogging friend to arrive bearing multiple bottles of champagne. The conversation veers from the banal, to the satisfyingly crude, and back again, with many shades in between. Utterly fascinating.

Afterwards, I was thoroughly pleased with myself for having thrown caution and convention to the wind, by welcoming yet another online acquaintance into my offline life, letting my gut feeling guide me, poo pooing my mother’s objections on the telephone.

Mum: “A stripper? Will Tadpole be with you?”

Me: “Mum, she’s an Oxbridge graduate stripper, and anyway, she’s hardly going to teach Tadople how to hang upside down on a pole while my back is turned for five minutes, is she? And even if she did,” I add mischievously, “I’ve always thought children should be made to earn their keep…”

My only cause for disappointment, on this particular occasion, was that I couldn’t entreat Mimi and her sister Piu Piu to stay on in Paris until Saturday, the night of my upcoming party.

Because no party is complete without a stripper…

Friday – “proceed to checkout”

Mr Frog calls from the airport to say that he has landed on time, and will be able to take Tadpole for the evening after all. It is Friday night, and due to his previous uncertainty, I have made no firm plans for the evening. I resign myself to a night in, catching up on “Grey’s Anatomy”, my latest addiction, and trying not to think about the boy who wants to be friends without the addition of inverted commas.

A friendly little message arrives on meetic chat, out of the blue. In English, which is very refreshing indeed, as participating in chat, in French, on meetic, is comparable to having your fingernails slowly pulled one by one.

A little light-hearted banter ensues and before I know it, I have agreed to go out for a drink that very same evening. I will draw a veil of mystery over what happened next, but suffice to say that there were mojitos. Many mojitos. And a hasty “walk of shame” come Saturday morning, just in time to attend a fête with Mr Frog and Tadpole at her future playschool.

Just what the doctor ordered.

Saturday – “throwing quails’ eggs at parked cars” or “does my bum look big in this age 3-4 fairy outfit”

It is 3pm. I am immersed in a cool bath, having just taken 2 nurofen tablets, and am massaging my throbbing temples to no avail. In my kitchen there is a forest of mint, a dozen or so limes, and a large bottle of rum. Because, of course, the plan had been to make a vat of mojitos for my party. And now, quite frankly, I wouldn’t be sorry if I never have to smell another mojito as long as I shall live.

Bad planning.

Thankfully, by 9pm, when the guests begin to arrive, I have perked up considerably. The apartment is however like a furnace, on account of the rather too clement weather we have been having, so we all repair to the balcony at regular intervals to admire the view and cool off.

“Look at my gorgeous view – it’s my masthead image!” I cry.

This elicits blank looks from most people, bloggers included, and I realise that the mojitos are causing me to speak in tongues. And apparently no-one else present speaks xhtml or css.

5.30 am. Only the hardcore remain, including nardac and steve, elmer and chris. I don’t remember clearly what possessed us to fetch all of Tadpole’s headgear from her toybox, but everyone seems to share my enthusiasm for donning reindeer antlers, bunny ears, elephant and monkey masks and sparkly tiaras. Elmer in particular looks very fetching in Tadpole’s fairy outfit, complete with wand.

We throw quails eggs – which no-one seemed to want to eat, and why would they? – at parked cars, and pose for a series of deeply unflattering photographs.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Monday: still tired. Wondering if I will be able to afford rehab if things get too much. Slightly apprehensive about the prospect of a sweltering day at Disneyland Parc tomorrow for Tadpole’s belated birthday celebration.

But every time I think of my weekend, I have to stifle a delighted giggle.

Thank god for the internet.

Comments (44)

June 7, 2006

juiced

Filed under: single life — petiteanglaise @ 5:12 pm

The conversation is stilted, maladroit. We blunder around in ever decreasing circles, searching, in vain, for our habitual articulacy. So many words hanging in the air uselessly, devoid of actual meaning.

This sorry state of affairs is my own fault.

The previous night I proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that 2 G&T’s + gmail chat + petite do not comfortable bedfellows make. And now I hide behind my hair bashfully. Afraid my eyes will mutely implore something, against my wishes, when all I want is to keep a few precious fragments of my dignity intact.

Granted, something had to give, sooner or later. We both agree that the transition from banter to bedroom has become more awkward, more contrived, with the passage of time. An unnatural transaction.

But my laborious preparations, the nail varnish, moisturiser and depilatory cream, bore witness to the fact that I had still hoped for something, tonight. Something which was not forthcoming.

I bolt the front door behind him, with an audible sigh I pray he doesn’t hear. Tell myself I should be relieved to put an end to all that ambiguity; the gnawing, insidious incertitude.

And yet I can’t help wishing I could just rewind the clock to the previous night. And pour myself an orange juice instead.

Comments (79)

June 2, 2006

caterpillar

Filed under: single life, Tadpole rearing — petiteanglaise @ 12:02 pm

Tadpole is sitting on my knee, stabbing at the keyboard, attempting to type her name. Her efforts are fairly impressive, when you take into account the fact that I am simultaneously tickling her ribs:

tttaaaaaaaadddddppmollllleeeeee

Master of shortcut key combinations of which I do not even suspect the existence (she toggled my keyboard into thinking it was English the other day and it took the longest time to figure out how to make it French again), she abruptly closes the word processor window. A backgrounded firefox window is unveiled, revealing a motley assortment of meetic members currently online.

Today we have:

Monsieur Clope au Bec, puffing on his gaulloise, face obscured by a cloud of smoke, the mere sight of which makes me wrinkle my nose in distaste.
Monsieur Pectoraux, who is probably too busy working out to have a love life, and looks like he is in need of a long shower. I am starting to feel relieved that scratch and sniff profiles have not yet seen the light of day.
Mr Infidèle, who has opted for a badly cropped photograph of himself with his current wife/girlfriend, her cheek pressed against his, her arm draped across his shoulder.

Tadpole is looking intently at the screen, although it’s hard to say what has grabbed her attention. I suspect it may be the attractive fluffy dolphin posing alongside Mr Shiny Shellsuit.

“Mummy, how do you say chenille in English?” Tadpole asks, a little randomly.

“It’s caterpillar, darling,” I reply, “like in the book about the very hungry caterpillar.”

Tadpole nods, then points at the screen. “Why that man have a very hungry caterpillar crawling on his chin?”

I giggle. It does indeed look very much like a furry caterpillar has lost its way.

“Maybe it’s his pet caterpillar?” I suggest. I point at a Rod Stewart look-alike with an impressive mullet, hugging a labrador: “look, that man is in the picture with his pet animal too…”

Surfing once Tadpole is safely tucked up in bed, I realise that the unsightly facial caterpillar phenomenon is more widespread than I had initially realised. They are everywhere I click. The worst are those which steal upon me unawares, when I select the profile of an attractive looking gentleman, then note with dismay that all the other photos he has included are overrun with lepidoptera larvae.