She was a drama queen – a mild one. Everyone loved her in Year 7, even the teachers. As time went on she developed a few preferences of some particular school subjects over others. She tried to hide them at first, but the teachers just didn’t have a clue. Her metamorphosis took place in a sunny afternoon, in Year 8.

She took my red pen out of my pencil case and opened her homework diary. I watched her as she drew a stick-figure, gave it a bit of hair and an unhappy face. It held a baguette in one hand, and a beret in the other. She labelled it “Mrs Godet”. I grabbed the pen and changed the “Mrs” to “Mme”, but she changed it back and said, “I reserve my right to speak English, especially since this is England and we don’t freaking need flipping French.” Then we had a little giggle.

“Catriona and Miranda, pay attention please,” said Mme Godet.

Ahem, I was Kate and she was Randa. Nevertheless, we said “sorry madame”. And as soon as Mme G turned around, we started giggling again. Randa stabbed the stick-figure with a sharp pencil, and meanwhile uttered, “I’m a rebel child.”

The word “godet” means “pot”, so Randa and I had an imaginary English teacher who taught in France, called “Mrs Pot”. We passed notes in very bad French as the imaginary French kids, insisting on calling her Mme Pot instead of Mrs Pot.

Randa never did her French homework properly, despite the fact that she should be pretty good at it, after the numerous voluntary French writing that we did in class. Her homework was always a bit frustrating – if Mme G wanted 140 words, she would write 100; if the topic was school, she would write 200 words on why she should not be made to do French. She was a rebel child, after all.

A year later, in Year 9, Mme Godet decided that we were going to do a Short Course GCSE before our GCSE years even started, just in case anyone wanted to drop French after Year 9, so that everyone would get a language qualification. Good idea? Randa didn’t think so. “Why would I need a language qualification?” she asked me, “I’m going to be an actress, and mind you, not a French one, but an English one.” “But think about it Randa, just work for a few more months, and then no French for the rest of your life!” She snickered, “I’ve refused to work for the past 2 years, so why should I work now?”

I was transferred to another school before the exams took place, and before my departure Randa expressed a friendly jealousy about my getting rid of French. I never heard from her again – the only reason why we sat together was because Miranda Roberts and Catriona Robertson seemed like the sort of people that should sit together – but according to my other friends, she did well. Mme Godet went back to France after the summer, and the new teacher to replace her was also French. I’m glad that Randa doesn’t have to tolerate the French lessons anymore. Every bit of French seemed poisonous to her, and without it, maybe Mild Miranda will come back. If, oh if only this was really and purely about French.