Dear Madame Sarkozy,
I am unclear on how to address you - Your Excellency? Your Eminence? Ma Cherie?
You see, I have a little girl crush on you. And it came out of the blue.
It was a full moon and I was nursing a semi-broken heart. In my naivete I decided to watch a little film called 500 Days of Summer. I won't bore you with the details, the royalty cheques might give you a clue to what happened next.
Your husky, almost-not-there voice filtered in through the speakers of my beautiful white Mac as two very Caucasian actors kissed each other on screen. The girl didn't really love the boy and would go on to irrevocably damage his idealistic heart - but that's not important. See, the thing is you began to sing and I forgot everything else.
Let's cut through the bureaucratic bullshit. I'm totally in love with you. I can't understand a damn word you're saying in spite of having studied French for 6 years in school (Mrs. Swaminathan had a good heart but she ladled sambar on all her French pronunciations). But I don't really have to do I? Can we get together sometime? Maybe when Nick is pulling an all-nighter (wink, wink). I know I'm not the President of anywhere and I'm not Mick Jagger but I do bring a certain exotic je ne sais quoi to the table (which, incidently is spelt the same in English and French).
We don't really have to do anything much. You could strum your guitar, wear that white linen shirt you wore on the pants-optional cover of No Promises. You could sing Quelq'un M'a Dit - it's my favourite song. I could just sit there and hear you make love to the microphone (how that husband of yours manages to get any work done with you around, I do not know). You could do that gravely little laugh you do at the end of Le Plus Beau du Quartier and I swear, I could die happy.
You see, till this afternoon (when I illegally downloaded two of your albums - forgive me Carla, I come from a Third World Country where we don't have money to buy CD's but have pretty decent broadband) I was madly in love with a boy, who wasn't good for much else except walks in the moonlight. But the more you sang, the fainter his memory became, replaced instead with all those images I found of you on Google.
However, reality is such...sigh...you strum your guitar seven seas apart, you belong to a man who scares women into discarding their burqas and you frolic with the likes of Nelson Mandela.
Who am I but a simple albeit voluptuous girl from New Delhi, India. Neither rich nor particularly gifted at anything except illegal downloading activities.
I have nothing to offer except humble efforts at resurrecting my knowledge of French. Right now, all I've got is:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?