At my primary school, we had a special day every year to celebrate all things French. Yes, while other schools were concerning themselves with important events like anniversaries of stuff and whatever the Queen was up to, we were just pratting around having fun with all that is good about the Gauls.
The general idea was that every pupil would dress up as a famous or celebrated Frenchperson. However, bearing in mind that we a) didn't really know what this 'France' place was at that stage, and b) we were far too young to appreciate how amazing Coco Chanel was, it was largely under the jurisdiction and sewing machines of our beloved parents.
Some of their choices were political - gosh, doesn't little Henry look like Jacques Chirac? - many were sports related - one boy, poor thing, came to school in full scuba gear - but some were the obvious attempts by parents to be a little, how shall we say... different.
I was one of the victims of such individuality.
Now, bearing in mind that I was blonde (not any more), short (even shorter than now) and a girl (in case you weren't aware), and not at all blessed with the delicate insouciance and long-stemmed Gauloise of any decent Frenchwoman, I believe my mother was at a little bit of a loss. No Parisian looked anything like me, no southern paysanne had my pale English complexion, and I definitely couldn't pull off Jacques Chirac.
So my mother dressed me as Asterix.
Yes, Asterix, the moustached, helmet-wearing, strength-potion-swilling protector of the Gauls against the Romans.
Needless to say, I wasn't pleased.
The year after, I wore a fake fur coat and pearls and pretended to know who Coco Chanel was.
I am sorry
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