petite anglaise

April 27, 2006

transmission interrupted

Filed under: misc — petiteanglaise @ 8:21 am

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

April 22, 2006


Filed under: Tadpole rearing — petiteanglaise @ 7:00 pm

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.



“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.

April 21, 2006

the superficial

Filed under: navel gazing, single life — petiteanglaise @ 11:16 am

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.

April 18, 2006


Filed under: navel gazing — petiteanglaise @ 1:01 am
the red eye seems appropriate here

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.

April 16, 2006


Filed under: Tadpole rearing — petiteanglaise @ 10:31 pm

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.

April 13, 2006

en veille

Filed under: navel gazing — petiteanglaise @ 8:29 pm

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

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