Just the other day, by a very strange stroke of coincidence, I found my kinder garden napkin.
I was at my parents house, shaving, and here it was. Just exactly as I left it very long ago, squared, pink with my name stitched in clear white letters.
How can I remember it all so vividly?
The chequered "tablier"(that I used to hate so much), my little black leather strap bag and the smell of biscuit and sand mixed with childhood innocence.
Our young French teacher with her little nose and very short dark hair taking our tiny hands and dancing around in circles. "Sur le pont d'avignon, on dance, on dance..."
The swing, le balance and my bleeding knees were almost a daily routine.
How, sometimes, I used to cry attempting to avoid the inevitable, holding on tight to my grandma while crossing Triumph square on our way. I thought maybe, just this once, she'll turn back and take me home with her.
I looked up and saw a glimpse in the mirror.
Where did this hardened face come from? Where are my hair curls and pimples?
I felt a tap on my trouser...
With a faint smile, and Ferry's hand in mine we walked out. I found myself murmuring "Au claire de la lune, mon ami Pierrot..."
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