Miss, Ms or Mrs?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet"

Two weeks ago, France bit the bullet. The epithet mademoiselle has had her last outing, and is no more. Indeed, the word mademoiselle will disappear altogether from administrative documents in what appears to be the first step towards complete eradication of the term. French Feminists are surely jumping for joy, but what does this really represent for young ladies in France?

Mademoiselle will be usurped by its slightly senior counterpart Madame. But, one cannot help but wonder if this is truly the lesser of two evils.

On a personal level, I feel offended if called Madame. I object to it for a variety of reasons, the first of which being my own vanity. Being called Madame seems to be something I should expect once I reach a certain maturity of age. But aged 23? Secondly, I have always been offended by the Madame or Mrs. which occasionally appear on my doorstep. My mind always forms the same outraged thought: how dare they presume that I am married? I consider that Mademoiselle, and indeed Miss are the more flattering alternatives in terms of age, and marital status, particularly for a younger generation of women.

However, I do wholeheartedly agree that the nominal demarcating of married and unmarried women is wrong. Wrong because the same system does not exist for men. My solution to the problem would be: coin a new universal term for women, or invent a word for unmarried men. The English language has Ms which I believe fulfils this purpose for women. Alternatively, Master could act as an epithet for unmarried males. On the other hand, perhaps we should all get PhDs or medical degrees instead and forget about all this nonsense.

Etymologically, the term Miss stems from Mistress and serves as a term of respect for young women, or girls. Bizarrely enough, the abbreviation Mrs also stems from Mistress. How can two abbreviations of the same word represent two separate marital conditions?




It may be too late for France to salvage Mademoiselle, but surely us Brits can find a more suitable alternative than Mrs -- a term emptied of any pejorative connotation. I vote Ms.

For more information visit Le Point

Paris Favourites

In less than two weeks, I shall be moving back to my homeland in search of cheese scones and employment (with a firm emphasis on the latter), so I see it as only necessary to write a tribute to one of my favourite places; a source of constant and unfailing delight during my time in France. Of course, it’s been done before. All the world is equally as in love as I am with the immovable feast that is PARIS.
I’ve been going to Paris since I was a child, and despite braving cold winds, torrential rain, snow, slush and heatwaves to be there, Paris is always sunny in my memories. Bizarre, I hear you say. Yes, indeed, I really am afflicted by the rose-tinted-glasses syndrome, but, weather aside; there are some parts of Paris which will always, always be sunny in my eyes.
So here goes. My top five Paris love list.

1. La Durée. This is a relatively recent addition to the list, but a huge favourite. This luxury purveyor of “douceurs et gourmandises” is devilishly, delectably decadent, yet not as expensive as one would expect.
There are four La Durées in the city of Paris, yet my most enjoyable LD experience thus far occurred in the Saint Germain des Prés maison which is nestled on the corner of rue Bonaparte in the 6ème. Infinitely more spacious and comfortable than its busier counterpart on rue Royale, I was utterly mesmerised by the opulent murals of peacocks and exotic scenes as I sipped thé Eugénie whilst savouring every bite of my macaron framboise. If you’re feeling naughty, I would most definitely recommend the Ispahan, which can only be described as too-die-for good. A raspberry macaron filled with fresh whole raspberries and lychees, with rose-petal cream, and garnished with a rose petal.




2. Dinner chez Jim Haynes. For people wanting to experience an altogether more intellectual (less touristic) side of Paris, then this is the place to go. Every Sunday night since the 1970s, Jim has hosted an ‘open’ dinner party in his atelier. Anyone can attend –- all he requires is an email in advance to be ‘on the list’, and a contribution of 30 euros (more or less) for the dinner. Everywhere one turns, a deep, thoughtful and interesting conversation is occurring; friends are being made; contacts are being swapped. A wonderful way to feel the beating heart of Intelligent Paris.

3. Shakespeare and Company.

Again, a relatively recent find –- albeit a somewhat touristy addition. This has to be one of my favourite bookshops of all time. It is precisely what a bookshop should be – full to the brim of books, old and new, second hand, or never-been-read. Piles of books are stacked on floors, people are tucked away in every corner, reading, writing, observing, and even living in the bookshop (yes, really!). Someone is playing the piano while others sit and dream. A fabulous experience for my fellow bookworms, which makes Paris feel like a close-knit village.








4. Musée d’Orsay. My favourite museum in Paris. A stunning piece of architecture, bursting with Impressionists. Simply magical.


5. La Petite Epicerie de La Rue Mouffetard (N°4). This lovely little boutique on one of Paris’ oldest streets (rue Mouffetard) occupies a special place in my heart. Owned and run by my dear friend Stéphane, the shop is both aesthetically pleasing, and chocka-block with unusual products ranging from luxurious bath products and candles; to organic foodstuffs, curiously scrumptious jams, chutneys, oils, and children’s toys.

I am woman.

As a woman living in the 21st century, I find myself continually turning over a certain question in my head. What is a woman?

Of course, we are all aware of the biological differences between the sexes, but how does that difference translate into modern day gender roles? Now, before you switch off mentally, just forget about the pleonasm “gender role” -- it is a term emptied of all significance due to excessive bandying around. I am loath to say anything regarding the repression of women, lest I be asked to justify myself. Suffice to say, it is a truth universally acknowledged (by most sane individuals).
Indeed, what I wish to reflect upon is our current position as women in the grand sphere of genders. The Women's Liberation Movement did wonders for female sexuality. Women reclaimed their bodies and became sexual subjects. Third Wave Feminism now seeks to empower women sexually, whilst challenging essentialist notions surrounding gender binaries. All very well and good (and really, it’s marvellous), but have some women missed the point?

In my experience, announcing that one is a feminist in a social gathering is rather like sticking a pin in a balloon. I’ve heard people pronounce the word ‘feminist’ with such gravity, anyone would think I was pledging my allegiance to the Communist Party. Nonetheless, I find that there is a certain pejorative connotation which hangs over the term, and I don’t quite know why.

As a student, I was horrified by the myriad misled young females so eager to return to the ancien regime. No, I’m not talking about the French Revolution, but rather the cultural phenomenon that occurs in Great Britain. Young girls, 18, who come to university eager to have fun and make new friends. Partying, clubbing, and the inevitable excesses that go hand in hand, render both men and women somewhat weaker. However, there is a very definite social trend which goes by the name of ‘sharking’, whereby older male students go out in search of “fresh meat” i.e. drunk, willing young females (preferable freshers). These girls are participants, albeit unconscious, who believe that this is the true meaning of claiming one’s sexuality, of being in control. In fact, I see this as a reversal of the progress made in the 20th Century, for this predatory behaviour is more akin to the likes of a male hunter, female prey.

I believe in female sexuality; in women being in control, and having a choice. Yet, if that choice is taken away from you, or made on your behalf, then you are no longer in control. This begs the question: have we gone too far the other way? Have we rendered ourselves so sexually available that control has been seized back by the male of the species?

The Joy...

Of Living Alone.

Here's to all those brazen, shameless individuals who choose to live alone. It's one of life's best kept secrets, not widely-propagated as those in the 'know' abide by the rules so closely that it would be impossible to share such esoteric knowledge. Enigma aside, it's a wondrous luxury to live alone! I don't suppose many of you know how great it is. That's because we're all too busy being alone to even think about telling other people. But, seriously, it is a joy unrivalled to be in a position where conflict is non-existent; and washing-up and cleanliness is a not-so-urgent necessity (carried out at your own discretion and not a minute sooner). Lie-ins are plentiful, music is blasted, loud singing compulsory. Peace, quiet, and space to breathe are all helpful benefits of such delightful living conditions, coupled with the option of rejoining the human race when you feel like it!

Of course, there was a time when I thought people who chose to be alone weren't really 'choosing' at all, and that nobody really liked them. I used to stare in incredulity when people said they "wanted to be alone" -- "sorry, do you want me to leave!?". Now, after a plethora of awful living situations, I realise the true value of peace and quiet. Of doing things your own way and not feeling selfish.

So, for an easy stress-free gorgeous experience, live alone. Ignore the Eleanor Rigby nonsense and forget about being eaten by Alsatians. It's bloody marvellous. End of.

Bison -- Switzerland

GREAT MUSIC

Jorge Luis Borges

Bliss

"She still had moments like this when she wanted to run instead of walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to bowl a hoop, to throw something up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh at - nothing - at nothing, simply."

Katherine Mansfield