|My first (and probably last) buttie ever!
What a stonking start of the week! I was walking to the bus stop with my younger daughter this morning, because my beloved Chelsea tractor is at the garage for a MOT. I didn’t understand what was happening, until suddenly I heard a few cars tooting their horns, and another car braking violently. Such chaos was slightly unusual because it was still early morning. I noticed that a white van was following me slowly, hence blocking the whole High Street. It was followed by a bunch of frustrated drivers. There was nothing wrong with us, and the only logical explanation was that the guys in the white van were admiring me and/or my bottom. I couldn’t believe it. My daughter was finding the whole episode hilarious
“Mummy, they like you!” she said. Bless her.
Are they for real? I stared at the driver, only to notice that he was so young that he could have been my son.
Has the world gone mad? I asked myself.
We eventually reached our bus stop, and the guys in the van waived enthusiastically at us, and finally started to accelerate. Phew! The few people waiting with us looked at me as if I was some sort of alien. I didn’t say anything. Maybe I need to write to Levi to let them know the effect of their skinny jeans. I wonder. Seriously, what the hell is going on? I don’t remember anything like this happening to me in France.
In fact, come to think about it, I spent most of my teenage years in France trying without any success whatsoever to get a boyfriend. I remember fancying a few guys, but they ended up going out with my best mates. Some friends I had back then, right? In French, se prendre un rateau (lit-‘to take a rake’) means to face a rebuttal. Come on, it is much funnier in French, right?
Let’s just say that if there had been a price for taking ‘rateaux’, I would have been a champion. Not to mention that my butt back then was probably a lot better-looking.
Fast-forward more than 20 years, and here I am, getting so much attention that I almost caused a traffic accident.
How did it all happen?
Maybe I was in the wrong country. Maybe French women are better appreciated outside of their home country. Maybe 40 is the new 20. Well, this much I know: I really will never understand men, French or British. Please, does any of you have a sensible explanation? Oh, and this much I know too: I can’t wait to get my car back!
Muriel – A French Yummy Mummy In London