So...this is a oneshot I've been working on and I'm now ready to post it *wuhuuu*

I'm german and only 15 so don't blame me for any mistakes but tell me in the comments.




Perfection, you might would want to now, is not at all about simply being perfect.

It could rather be described as how you are seen by others.

And that's the hard thing about it. The opinions and thoughts about you, voiced aloud without people thinking about the consequences.

It does hurt, how you might be able to imagine, and that it does like nothing else could.

How words can pierce your heart, let it freeze or even break is an art -maybe even a magic- that no one and nothing should have.

And yet everyone has it. And they throw around with it, mess and screw everything up.

Perfection can't be reached because of the difference of people. Everyone thinks differently, no one is the same.

And usually everyone thinks that's a good thing. But one doesn't.

For that's why she can't call herself 'perfect' but simply 'practically perfect'.

But she makes the best of it nonetheless.

It's just how she is.

People like her, admire her even, although she's not the most likeable person.

She's vein and stern and very proud and yet so very lovely.

Men like her for her appearance, for she is truly beautiful and a sight for sore eyes, women like her for being a role model. She's the perfect example for a wonderful mother, stern and firm but always kind and gentle.

Well, not always. But often, for sure.

She loves to be loved, clearly.

All the attention and the fuss and the gossip -but only the good one, of course- is for nothing but upholding her, all the wooing and talking about her is perfect to her.

But sometimes perfection -even if only practically- can be so very exhausting.

And that is when she takes the evening off.

Most times it's the second Tuesday, the second Thursday quite often, too.

And she dresses up as if she was going to have tea with the queen but eventually it's only a certain chimney sweep, waiting for her on the bench at the edge of the park.

He will try to kiss her cheek, she will back away before he can even lean in. Instead she will take his arm and let him lead her down the street along his pavement pictures until she's spotted one she likes more than the others, he will beg her to get them there, she will tell him to stop being silly.

Eventually they will be there, sitting and laughing together and he will make her a little jealous just to later have something to remember that his dream isn't only a dream but could be real one day.

"Oh Bert, you're such good company.", she will tell him and laugh because that's what she always says.

They'll dance and talk and laugh and she'll enjoy being perfect around him because that's what she is for him -perfect.

Without even trying to be.

For some time she'll forget that she has to be amusing and lovely and friendly and funny and is just how she is.

She knows he would never judge her.

And so they'll pass her evening off together and the time will fly away quickly, so that when it'll be time for her to end their adventure, he'll say that there would never be enough time for them.

And she'll be sad -but smile anyway- and nod.

They'll leave the picture again, holding hands and look at each other for some moments.

He will try to snuck away a kiss goodbye, she will thankfully decline the offer, turn around and leave.

It's not that she wouldn't appreciate a kiss, she just knows how right he is.

They won't ever have enough time together, she won't ever have any time at all.

Not more than an evening off.

So she quickly gathers pace and hurries around the corner where the house of her employees is.

When she steps through the garden gate, she sees the children standing at the window, waving at her.

And she will throw them a stern glance, saying they should rather get away from the window because otherwise she would pack and leave.

It's not that she want to leave.

But she'll have to, anyways.

And for she knows, she always threatens her charges with it.

It's a good way to get them disciplined.

She opens the door and smiles at her charges, standing behind it.

"Where were you?", they ask and she sniffs and says, "I'm here, now, that's all I'm going to say about that."

And she rushes upstairs into the nursery and hears the children whispering.

"If you don't tell us, it was something great.", one of them says.

"I bet you were in fairyland."

And she roles her eyes and says, "Fairyland, indeed."

But deep inside she feels it was indeed fairyland, her own personal one.

Where she didn't have to be perfect intentionally, but was anyways.

"Fairyland.", she whispers to herself, smiling.

But when she turns around, that smile has worn off and she says, "Fairyland is not a place for a proper woman like myself."

"But, Mary Poppins-"

And she raises a hand to shush them and snaps, "Not another word!"

For she still reminisces her eveing off with a lovely man like Bert at her side.

She won't ever tell him she feels that way, of course she won't.

She'll watch him from afar, see him be perfect for her.

For that's just how she is.

If she wanted to be perfect, she would have to stop fearing, she would have to let love taking over her heart.

But she doesn't. And so she'll always be simply practically perfect.

In a way only Mary Poppins can.