Mary Poppins: Practically Perfect

Prologue

A warm welcome to all of my readers. I suppose you stumbled across this piece of literature either by pure chance or by a direct enquiry through some sort of futuristic search tool I know very little about. Either way, I can establish a vague concept of who you are: a curious being, imaginative, perhaps a little too much so, hmmm... quite an interesting mind - a sufficient level of intellect but easily distracted, I suspect.

Who am I? Why by now I was sure you would have guessed. Kind, firm but fair, rosy cheeks and most definately no warts. Nothing? Let me tell you. My name is Mary Poppins, supremely appointed Childrens' Nanny and Practically Perfect in Every Way. Over the past few years, I have been somewhat of a mother figure to many young ones, the majority of whom have become quite the young men and women. Although, it hasn't always been like that, not at all. Let me tell you a story from over twenty years ago...

When I was a young girl, around the age of ten or eleven years old, my mother asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I told her I didn't want to grow up, that I wanted to play games and sing and dance all day long for the rest of my life. I was quite determined that this was a sensible proposition and one that I would gladly stick by.

Of course, my mother and father were appauled by this idea and lectured me on how important it was to consider my future. My father worked as the editor of a weekly newspaper - quite a respectable position to hold - and he was quite convinced that I could learn some essential life skills from him, which would help me along the way to become a strong, successful, independent woman.

I did not dare to refuse this concept, for fear of punishment, but instead sought out the peaceful solitude of the nursery, where I played for hours rearranging my dolls' house until I was called down much later for supper.

"Now, Mary," my mother began, almost as soon as I had sat down at the table. "We have been contemplating our little conversation we had earlier today and have come to the conclusion that maybe it is time for you to begin taking lessons at a proper school."

I felt my heart sink a little. For the past few years of my life I had been homeschooled by my Nanny and although it was boring, it was only for two hours a day and I was allowed a rest whenever I wanted one. I couldn't even bear to imagine what it would be like to have up to six hours of lessons a day.

"Not only that," my mother continued. " But we believe, that is your father and I, well, we think that..." she trailed off, her eyes lowering into her lap.

But my father wasn't so shaken and in fact looked positively thrilled when he declared that from the forthcoming September I would be attending a residential school - spending up to twelve weeks at a time away from home.

"The Royal Academy for Practically Perfect Young Ladies is your mother's old school and I am perfectly sure you will settle in straight away, just like she did."

Obviously, I protested profusely, even point-blank refusing to leave my bedroom for the rest of the evening. But it was all in vain because the morning of September the first my mother came into my unusually empty bedroom, handed me a bag full of things which she had packed from my room overnight and told me to wait outside for the horse.

So, three months after my parents had telephoned my new school to reserve me a place, I stood at the window of a two-person dormitory, alone, watching my parents drive off into the distance.