A/N: I seem to have a perverse pleasure in twisting innocent children's tales into these melancholy fictions. To my TT readers: won't be updating for a while. Sorry.
It is a bit nippy sometimes, but Mary doesn't mind. She is practically perfect in every way, you see.
She sits and waits above her cosy cloud, but she never does so for too long. There are so many little boys and girls and mothers and fathers that need her help. So she opens her umbrella and steps out. And when she is done, she opens it again.
Tidy and neat and wonderful, her work is—practically perfect. She helps them; she is so happy when they truly, gradually, gladly grow into their new role in the family. It is all worthwhile in the end. They are happy, too. She can't really say, of course, but the wind has never blown in the same direction often, and when it does, it never leads her down to the same residence.
She would like to keep her eye on them, maybe set a mirror up in each home? But that would be most inconvenient; after all, Mary is practically perfect, and that mirror is perfectly cheeky, thank you very much. And then, of course, she musn't tell the wind what to do—that would be quite rude.
Mary looks down upon London, and oh! if she looks closely, she can see the kites. They wave in the air, and smiling, she waves back too.
It's his goodbye present, she thinks.
"Goodbye. I'll try to come back soon."
Will she? She hopes so.
"I will, won't I?" she asks, to no one in particular—maybe to the wind.
She looks down at London once more, but she can't tear her eyes away from her practically perfect skirt. There is a little blemish to the left, a stain slightly darker than the cloth itself. It is hardly noticeable, but to Mary's practically perfect eye (used to practically perfect things), it stands out. And then, she sees another.
It is raining, so she opens her umbrella. She can't be wet to her next appointment, can she? She remembers that she is on top of a cloud, so she stares at her skirt again.
She begins to see more dots now, and she lifts her head up to check for rain again, even though she knows what to expect—after all, she is practically perfect.
And suddenly, she is crying, sobbing, all the while thinking how stupid she is for ruining her freshly applied, practically perfect makeup.
The Umbrella stands up and closes itself, and Mary replies thickly because she knows it's coming: "I know—practically perfect people never permit sentiment to muddle their thinking."
But the Umbrella doesn't even make a sound as it floats back to her side. It doesn't need to say anything; Mary knows quite well.
Mary Poppins is perfect in every way, you see. Practically, anyway.
A/N: Bert/Mary is one of the most tragic relationships ever. Continue? Preferably one-shot? Review!