She was always a little girl, with little things and little curls and a little mind. People would say there goes the girl, the one that will brighten your day. (But maybe not so bright in her mind.) She would take little steps, with little shoes, that had little journeys and little tales to tell. But she wouldn’t mind. Because little things, made the bigger things, which led to the great things and in time, these things brought her to one of the best things.
She had become a woman. A woman who knew her mind.
Showing posts with label Mademoiselle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mademoiselle. Show all posts
Monday, 14 May 2012
Sunday, 13 May 2012
Mademoiselle by Sam Smith
When I was about fifteen, someone told me that I have a “very French facial features”. This came as quite a surprise to me, coming from an incredibly British family. I’m not even sure that we have any other nationality in our blood. Maybe a little bit of Icelandic on my mother’s side. But apparently the shape of my nose, the way the sides of my lips curl when I smile and something about my eyebrows makes people think I look French.
For a while, I thought nothing of it. I’m not one of the British people who still seem to harbour resentment to the French for I guess the war or something. It’s just my face. It might look French. It might look stupid. Ultimately it doesn’t matter because it looks like me.
But when I was eighteen, a girl came up to me in the pub and asked if I was French. I was just standing at the bar waiting to get served. I wasn’t doing anything even remotely French. The girl was very pretty and I got nervous and told her the truth in my charming West Country accent.
‘Err… No, I’m from Bath. It’s kind of near Bristol.”
The pretty girl was less than impressed. She made some small talk with me about Bristol being kind of gross and then walked back over to her friends without inviting me.
Similar situations like that occurred before I figured out what to do. It was starring me straight in the face. On a night out for a friend’s birthday, a pretty girl with glasses asked me if I was French. I smiled, making sure to curl the ends of my lips a lot more than usual and contorted my eyebrows. Forcing my voice to go quite a lot lower than normal, I whispered one word that I was sure to interest her with.
‘Mademoiselle.’
Or at least I tried to say that. It’s very hard to say French words when you’ve been raised in the South West. I ended up sounding less like a charming French man and more like a confused tourist. Needless to say, the pretty girl walked away almost immediately and I don’t blame her. I have since stopped smiling, started to get my eyebrows plucked on a monthly basis and I have an appointment for a nose job booked for early next year.
For a while, I thought nothing of it. I’m not one of the British people who still seem to harbour resentment to the French for I guess the war or something. It’s just my face. It might look French. It might look stupid. Ultimately it doesn’t matter because it looks like me.
But when I was eighteen, a girl came up to me in the pub and asked if I was French. I was just standing at the bar waiting to get served. I wasn’t doing anything even remotely French. The girl was very pretty and I got nervous and told her the truth in my charming West Country accent.
‘Err… No, I’m from Bath. It’s kind of near Bristol.”
The pretty girl was less than impressed. She made some small talk with me about Bristol being kind of gross and then walked back over to her friends without inviting me.
Similar situations like that occurred before I figured out what to do. It was starring me straight in the face. On a night out for a friend’s birthday, a pretty girl with glasses asked me if I was French. I smiled, making sure to curl the ends of my lips a lot more than usual and contorted my eyebrows. Forcing my voice to go quite a lot lower than normal, I whispered one word that I was sure to interest her with.
‘Mademoiselle.’
Or at least I tried to say that. It’s very hard to say French words when you’ve been raised in the South West. I ended up sounding less like a charming French man and more like a confused tourist. Needless to say, the pretty girl walked away almost immediately and I don’t blame her. I have since stopped smiling, started to get my eyebrows plucked on a monthly basis and I have an appointment for a nose job booked for early next year.
Mademoiselle by Emily Chadwick
Sir Reginald von Toastingham twirled his moustache as he surveyed the gaggle of pretty women outside the fine Parisian milliners. The ladies were crowding around a display of particularly flamboyant and vibrant hats, giggling and chattering as they vied for the best viewing spots.
There were tall girls and short girls, skinny girls and plump girls. Redheads, brunettes and blondes.
And they were all unchaperoned.
Sir Reginald tugged on his moustache with a smile.
There was an especially delectable French morsel standing a little way away from the others, She was blushing prettily as she bobbed on her feet, craning for a peek at the hat display. Her rich dark hair was twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, held in place by a fine mother-of-pearl clip. Blue eyes sparkled.
Sir Reginald walked up to her, his fingers tight on his finely-carved cane.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle.”
There were tall girls and short girls, skinny girls and plump girls. Redheads, brunettes and blondes.
And they were all unchaperoned.
Sir Reginald tugged on his moustache with a smile.
There was an especially delectable French morsel standing a little way away from the others, She was blushing prettily as she bobbed on her feet, craning for a peek at the hat display. Her rich dark hair was twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, held in place by a fine mother-of-pearl clip. Blue eyes sparkled.
Sir Reginald walked up to her, his fingers tight on his finely-carved cane.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle.”
Mademoiselle by Lesley Whyte
"Excusez-moi, nous voudrait à order."
"Naturellement, mademoiselle."
"Je voudrais les escargots de Bourgogne et puis… va comment le blanc de boudin?"
"Superbe, mademoiselle."
"Hm. Pas, je voudrais le coq au vin."
"Certainement. Et pour vous, monsieur?"
Alex squinted at the menu. He'd left his reading glasses at home, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of Jade, but they wouldn't have helped. "Uhh...that," he said, stabbing at something.
"The andouillette? Excellent choice, sir."
The waiter took their menus and left them. Jade took a sip of the wine she had chosen, which was
delicious, and then smiled.
"Andouillette. I'm impressed. It's an acquired taste," she said.
Alex started sweating.
"Naturellement, mademoiselle."
"Je voudrais les escargots de Bourgogne et puis… va comment le blanc de boudin?"
"Superbe, mademoiselle."
"Hm. Pas, je voudrais le coq au vin."
"Certainement. Et pour vous, monsieur?"
Alex squinted at the menu. He'd left his reading glasses at home, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of Jade, but they wouldn't have helped. "Uhh...that," he said, stabbing at something.
"The andouillette? Excellent choice, sir."
The waiter took their menus and left them. Jade took a sip of the wine she had chosen, which was
delicious, and then smiled.
"Andouillette. I'm impressed. It's an acquired taste," she said.
Alex started sweating.
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