France, our dearest, beautiful, graceful and coquettish France! The mother of Asterix le Gaulois, of butter croissant, of underarm hairois, Arsene Lupin, the guillotine, and short men wearing white leggings and oversized hats with rosettes! She is all but a ghost now.
Joan de Arc of Europe, she used to have visions of grandeur once, she used to lead masses into battle on a white horse, with her hair loose and one of her breasts popping our of her bra (or was it Marseille?). She used to dance cancan, flashing her knickers (or their absence), wriggling her bottom under layers of twirling frills and singing L’Amour in a seductive, husky voice drenched in red wine.
Today, she is a ghost, floating in the attic, watching wide-eyed those who live in her erstwhile home. She is shocked to see them eat with their hands, plunging their fingers in a cow’s skull to get to the delicacy of its brain. She flinches – and her image goes into a transitory flicker – as she observes women not only don’t flash their knickers, but they don’t even flash their faces, only the whites of their eyes.
She drifts away into the never-land of her past, further and further away with every day, she becomes only a memory, and one day even that memory bursts like a rainbow-coloured bubble.
This was the last in the long line of French Revolutions…
skip2468
Very enticing.
Do you have her phone number? lol