Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 13

FOR PABLO

Tousled, sunlit chestnut curls,

An easy, genuine smile,

Laughing eyes infused with kindness,

And an endearing splash of mischief.

 

I hovered on the outskirts of his crowd,

Yet I felt,

Even then,

Back in my quietest, shyest days,

That Pablo’s heart shone,

And that he was an expert in friendship.

 

I don’t need to close my eyes to see him

Practicing delighted wheelies on his moped

By the school gate.

 

Go in peace, beautiful boy.

Rest, lovely man, knowing that you are missed.

 

 

Love,

Francesca

 

A NIGHT AT HOOTERS

Our village is buzzing,

TV people are coming,

Yet no one’s on their way to the moon.

“What we’ll shoot is much cuter”,

Said the balding producer,

Orchestrating his camera crew.

 

The auberge is booked up;

They’ve brought all sorts of stuff

Just to film by the light of the moon.

“This is unprecedented,

Just so utterly splendid,”

The man gushed as festivities loomed.

 

This level of fervour

Is so far unheard of

For fowl dancing under the moon.

Yes, you did read that right;

Fowl let loose when it’s bright

At the Gingins Poultry’s Last Saloon!

 

An owl sets the mood

In a tree near the coop,

As he hoots by the light of the moon.

This nocturnal MC,

A Carl Cox devotee,

Is the bees’ knees in fowl pleasing tunes.

 

The hens are all grooving,

The cocks cockadoodling

As they rock by the light of the moon.

The turkey is sloshed,

His girlfriend’s in a strop,

He’ll be nuggets; that stewed dude is doomed!

 

Now human paparazzi

Have gate-crashed the party,

Tickled pink by the light of the moon!

The owl is twit-twooing,

Every bonbon is moving

In a mind-blowing feathery swoon!

 

By dawn it’s a wrap,

The TV trucks all packed,

The sun’s stolen the light of the moon.

But tonight, we’ll all cheer

In front of our TVs

As the owl’s rhythmic hooting resumes.

 

 If you enjoyed my poem, how about diving into my new poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN? The book has its very own playlist on Spotify!

 

"Her poems are both vitamins and vaccines, uplifts and preventative medicine that let us laugh at our pain and sharpen our own insights through her humorous lens." - Skye Fackre-Gibson

Or if you enjoy love stories with a generous serving of complete mayhem, why not join Gemma and her girlfriends in the Ibiza sunshine. You'll enjoy madcap adventures, beachside blunders, and a pop star romance that's straight out of a movie (maybe! There's a screenplay in the works!)  Find JUST LIKE A MOVIE, here.

THE REEL THAT MADE ME CRY IN THE WAITING ROOM

Dear everyone,

This morning, while waiting to see yet another doctor and absentmindedly scrolling Instagram on my phone, I saw that my daughter, Olivia, had made a new reel. This wouldn’t have been anything to write a Substack post about as she makes reels all the time! Olivia lives in the UK; she is a fashion photographer and mixed media artist, as well as an educator, and has used Instagram to communicate for years. I always enjoy watching her talk so confidently on Instagram; it’s been such a pleasure to watch her blossom from the bullied, shy little girl she was at school, to the confident, honest, generous, kind and soft-spoken young businesswoman she is today.

 

 

This time, however, the reel wasn’t about Olivia, it was about me. She has made what is practically a short film about how I came to poetry because of health issues, slicing together shots from what I now call “my previous life” (riding  Dominic, my dressage horse, hiking in the mountains, dancing on a beach), with footage of my “new life” which basically consists of staying home and writing poetry.

 

In her voice-over, she succinctly explained a little about what happened to me, how I turned to poetry to keep myself busy and sane (!), and how she and I collaborated over my new poetry book, Illicit Croissants at Dawn. It’s a beautiful little film, made with so much love, and watching it in the waiting room at the doctor’s this morning made me really emotional.

 

I’m still emotional now as I prepare to share it with you.

 

I hope you enjoy it.

 

Olivia’s work can be seen on her websites: www.oliviabossert.com and www.oliviabosserteducation.com

 

My poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, can be found on Amazon. Choose the Amazon closest to you (for Switzerland, go to Amazon.de)

 Thank you for reading!

Take care,

 

Francesca xx

NO TEA FOR TYRANTS

Turn him off, that awful man,

That awful man and his evil clan.

Turn him off, then turn him in,

The dude likes orange, why not indulge him?

 

Don’t send him to visit the King and Queen,

Camilla and Charles think the man’s a dweeb.

If worse comes to worse and the creep shows up,

The London Dungeon might well put him up.

 

They could lock him in, throw away the key,

And invite AOC for a cup of tea!

That lovely Bernie would be welcome too,

His days of clover are long overdue.

 

We’re sick and tired of this song and dance,

Of tariffs and ICE raids and JD Vance.

We watch you march; we cheer you on,

We pray for a cheerful denouement.

 

On a lighter note, there is this, here below!!! It’s new, it’s lovely, and it’s (the only oops) available on Amazon.

 

 

MY BODY WANTS TO BE SPANISH: from Ibiza Dreams to a (Fabulous) Catalan Compromise

Have you ever gone somewhere and felt like you belong? Somewhere you feel your heart space crack wide open, which is just as well because you’re suddenly overwhelmed with so much joy that there isn’t enough space inside you to hold it? And it’s so intense that you feel a hot, deep red echo of tears building somewhere between your throat, your ears and your eyes?

That’s how I felt when I first landed in Ibiza, one of the four Spanish Balearic Islands, a couple of decades ago.

I’d been hearing about Ibiza since I was a teenager. One of my best friends at school had a friend who spent her summers on the island - her parents had a house there, and my friend would regale me with stories of this wild girl who seemed like a teenage version of Dorothy Edwards’ “My Naughty Little Sister”. She sounded fascinating, the perfect combo of glamourous and bohemian. She tore around Ibiza’s country roads - most of them still dirt tracks back in the Seventies - on a moped, went to beach parties with bonfires and dancing under the stars, drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes and marijuana and – can you hear my shocked whisper? – she even went skinny dipping!

“She’s so naughty,” my friend would say, her eyes sparkling with pride at just how naughty this wild, beautiful friend was, and I remember thinking how much I longed to become wild and naughty, too.

But how could any of this wild-world naughtiness possibly rub off on me, when I lived in quiet, safe Geneva, and was, undoubtedly, like my friend, a total goodie-goodie? I didn’t drink, had never smoked a cigarette, and had been to so many lectures on drugs at school assemblies that I was convince I’d end up six feet under simply by inhaling someone else’s marihuana fumes.

The only parties I’d ever attended were those my parents threw, and occasional school dances where my friend and I would sit around, desperately waiting for a boy to invite us onto the dance floor so that we might shake our bums to KC and the Sunshine Band. If we got three dances in an evening it was something to celebrate, though sadly the boys we had crushes on were always interested in other girls.

My worldliness increased a tad in my final two years at school, when I fell in love for the very first time. We went out for several months, but I can’t say we were extremely naughty. As for my goodie-goodie friend, she started dating an older boy, whom she later married. Eventually my boyfriend and I broke up, and I met a slightly older boy with whom I dove straight into a long-term relationship. We were serious – think “Meet The Parents” vibes, but without any of the laughs – and I eventually walked out on him, overcome with the feeling that life probably had more to offer.

That’s when I met a rather naughty girl called V and we became best friends. And this time, some of that longed for naughtiness rubbed off on me.

Fate moves sometimes moves in mysterious ways: would you believe V knew the original naughty Ibiza girl?!

Her parents too had a house in Ibiza, so she’d also spent her childhood and teenage holidays running wild all over the island.

But even then, it never struck me that maybe Ibiza might be “calling me”. So, it was only when, in the late 90s, V, her husband and her baby son left Geneva and went to live on the island that I finally flew over to spend a long weekend with her .

V and I, back in the day, enjoying a slow hippy morning!

It was late April. The island was a fiesta of wildflowers. The earth wowed me with its delightful, deep, delicious shade of ochre. The sea sparkled a fresh, bright blue, and the Mediterranean pine trees wafted a scent so delicious I wanted to bottle it. But beyond the sheer beauty of the island, I also felt something stir deep inside me. A flicker of excitement. I felt a connection, almost a calling.

V and I, back in the day, enjoying a slow hippy morning!

I’d even call it an awakening.

This may sound pretty woo-woo, and it probably is. Nevertheless, I know that the person who arrived on the island on Thursday night was not the same person who left on Sunday evening. Even my husband felt it when he collected me at Geneva airport. I’d also had a fashion makeover!!

I fell deeply in love with Ibiza and returned many times in summer over the next decade, renting a house high above Cala Salada with stunning sunset views over the sea. I would drive down to Barcelona with my two young children and my parents and board the overnight ferry. We’d snuggle up in our little sleeper cabins and doze off to the guttural hum of the ferry engines and the gentle sway of the Mediterranean. We’d awaken at dawn and peer excitedly out of the porthole, beaming at the shimmering, teal-blue water, searching for that first glimpse of the island.

Dark green hills would begin to emerge, dotted here and there with white-washed houses. The final approach was always the pièce de resistance; there was something thrilling about sailing into Ibiza’s port just as the sun turned Dalt Villa into a tapestry of pink, peach, apricot and gold. I still get emotional remembering those magical arrivals, my arms around my children, my parents by my side, the wind whipping our hair into the perfect tousled un-do, laughing gulls gliding drunkenly overhead.

My husband would fly in for a couple of long weekends in July, before coming back and settling in for a couple of weeks of bliss in August when business slowed down. We met many people through V and her husband, and those holidays always flew by in a blur of bohemian enchantment.

Back then, I would have given anything to live there. I longed to be immersed in that carefree, creative atmosphere full time, which was unfortunately out of the question because of my husband’s job. I always tapped into another version of myself while on the island and returning to Switzerland felt like being parachuted into a prim and proper land in shades of beige.

So, I returned there in my head. I wrote a romantic comedy set in Ibiza, teleporting myself back there every morning when the kids went off to school, and dropping back into my Swiss body just in time for the school run. I lived a wonderful, adventure filled, romantic double life for eighteen months, and once my book was complete, I sent it off to a selection of agents in London and almost immediately picked up someone who represented big names. My agent was certain my book was going to be the next big thing, that we were going to make pots of money!

I could hardly wait for the moment I’d be able to tell my husband he would soon be able to retire, and that we could buy an old farmhouse in Ibiza and live bohemianly ever after.

Unfortunately, the book failed to sell to any of the big houses but was published a few years later by a small American press. I eventually retrieved the rights and republished it myself in 2023. If you’re in the mood for a very funny romance geared towards a slightly more mature age group, involving an older woman (she’s 38) and a very gorgeous Spanish pop star (he’s 29), as well as lots of mad capers between girlfriends, JUST LIKE A MOVIE is for you!

We don’t have a house in Ibiza, but we do now own a house in Spain, near Girona, a fabulous little town an hour north of Barcelona. We can drive there and don’t need to rely on planes or boats, a huge concern during Covid when we bought the property.

My husband is now retired, so we divide our time between Switzerland and Spain, and I’m always amused at how my spirits perk up as soon as I arrive. Our house’s location may not have Ibiza’s free-spirited, colourful vibe, but I love spending several months a year there. I love roaming the streets of Girona, discovering funky little boutiques, practising my Spanish with friendly shopkeepers and restaurateurs. I love driving down to the beach, either with a friend or on my own, walking the coastal paths, taking a dip in the sea. We’ve made many friends, both local and international, and the easy-going, friendly, outdoorsy vibe suits both my creativity and my body. The climate is a little milder than Switzerland, and while the temperature can drop below zero during the winter, by lunch time, if the sun is out, we can be in a shirt or a light sweater.

So, although I didn’t get my Ibiza farmhouse, I’m incredibly lucky to be able to indulge the part of me that wants to be Spanish. My husband’s body doesn’t crave being Spanish the way mine does; he’s profoundly attached to his Swiss roots, whereas I’m nationally confused! I’m English and Italian but raised in Switzerland. He and I are very different; I am creative, scatterbrained, rather messy and extremely spontaneous. He is disciplined, efficient and terrifyingly tidy. He loves football and golf; I’m into equestrian sports, Pilates and making things. I like pop music, he loves jazz. Each of us has learnt to make concessions, meeting somewhere in the middle, mixing shades of creme with bright splashes of colour, Miles Davis with Ricky Martin.

We return to Ibiza occasionally, staying with old friends, immersing ourselves again in the unique, bohemian spirit of the island, but I no longer obsess about making a life there. But I would be sad to have to abandon living part of my life in Spain, and if I had to choose, I know that my body would tell me, without a doubt, that it would prefer to be Spanish.

Does your body want to be another nationality? Or from a different area of your country? Tell me about it; I’d love to know.

With love,

Francesca

My poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, (poems by me, cover and illustrations by my daughter, mixed media artist Olivia Bossert) is now available on all the Amazons, and includes the poem “My Body Wants to Be Spanish”.

You can also enjoy the amazing ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN SOUNDTRACK, with one song per poem!

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Would you buy me a coffee?

HIGGLEDY ISN’T PIGGLEDY

 

Drop the scissors, stop your fussing,

Just flop back, relax and breathe,

You’ll find higgledy isn’t piggledy

There is wonder in some weeds!

 

Neat never tickled anyone’s goosebumps;

Let those daisies live their lives!

Put away that bloody lawnmower,

Read your book, go ride your bike!

 

Lose the trimmer, let vines tangle,

No, that poor bush isn’t dead!

Leave the power hose for tomorrow,

Why not go play golf instead?

 

(I’m going to whisper the next part, so he doesn’t hear!)

 

My lovely husband has the zoomies,

Sitting still isn’t his jam.

He cleans and tidies, does the shopping,

I think I found the perfect man!

*****

My new poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, is available on all the Amazons!

 For the SURROUND SOUND experience, listen to the ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN soundtrack on Spotify, featuring one perfectly matched song per poem,

ILLCIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN: my first review

Illustration by Olivia Bossert

A few weeks before publication, I sent a pdf of my book to a poet I follow on Substack who is incredible. I’d been a little nervous - after all I’d never written a single poem until early 2024. And his work is really amazing, and he has a lot of people following him who feel the same way. I held my breath, sucked in my tummy (well, not that, because of, well, you know….), and crossed my finger.

He loved the book! His review blew me away. I haven’t yet copied it out in full, but the link to his review on Substack is here. Have a read!

OMG…

Love Cesca

You can buy ILLCIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN on all the Amazons. For readers in Switzerland, go to Amazon.de. The English one will not work for Switerland!

Also, there is a Spotify Illicit Croissants at Dawn soundtrack here ! Enjoy!

THE ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN SOUNDTRACK: Because the songs know all the secrets

Good morning,

It’s here! My poetry book is available!

To mark the launch of ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN I wanted to do something special. I’d love to have planned a launch party, but I’m not exactly brimming with health at the moment. I don’t live in an Anglophone country, so the possibilities of doing readings in bookshops is limited. Nevertheless, a few months ago the owner of a pretty little boutique in a nearby village asked me whether I’d be willing to do a reading for one of their special evenings, and I told her I’d love to. The thing is, I have to factor in the unpredictability of living with two chronic illnesses, so making plans starts to feel a bit like “Living on a Prayer”. Soon, though! I hope.

Then I thought, ooh, how about merchandising? Of course! ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN tee-shirts and totes and tea-towels! That would be amazing, but - I mean, delusions of grandeur, Cesca? I had mugs made - which I already showed you, because I simply couldn’t wait - , and they’re gorgeous, and I’ve decided I’m going to make a few tee-shirts and tote bags. Because some delusions are fun.

(My mugs. I have no idea how to make photos smaller on here. Sorry.)

But what could I do for everyone else that doesn’t cost anything, or involve going anywhere?

And then, suddenly, I knew! ILLICT CROISSANTS AT DAWN could have its very own soundtrack!

Please note that I didn’t call it a playlist. Oh no! A soundtrack sounds far more curated, far more fancy.

The advantage of a soundtrack is that it can reach millions of people. Theoretically speaking, anyone who has Spotify could stumble upon my playlist. Not that they’d know it’s related to a poetry book, but maybe some sort of magical seven steps effect would kick in and lead them to it. And little by little, all this magic might eventually lead to world peace.

Please don’t send the loony-police; I spoke with my psychiatrist recently, and we agreed I need to think positive thoughts and socialize more. Life/health goals.

Anyway, my soundtrack has been a lovely project. I had a great time lounging on the bed in my office with my manuscript and my laptop, music blaring, pondering which song belonged to each poem. I felt like I was back in high school, staying up late making cassette tapes for my girlfriends with my little round, mono-speakered record player and a tiny, black, rectangular tape recorder, giving anyone who opened my bedroom door a stern telling off it because now I’d have to stop and record that particular track all over again. This took place in medieval times, long before most people had sophisticated HiFi equipment that allowed you to tape directly from record to cassette.

But there was so much joy, so much love involved in making those tapes, in getting the order of the songs just right. There was an art to it. Sharing your music was like opening a door straight into your soul. And if a boy you liked made you a tape, well, you wouldn’t hear a single thing any teacher said in class! The stakes were colossal, involving hours of inter-girlfriend note-passing under desks to dissect the potential sub-text that might vary, of course, according to the strategic positioning of a track. Music was powerful stuff. Pauses between songs made you hold your breath, wondering what came next. A mixed taped revealed who someone was, song after song. A slow dance introduced at exactly the right time might mean a boy really liked you.

Obviously, I had to dig deep and think outside the box when pairing songs with some of the poems. I’m sure plenty of the matchups come off as cryptic – which frankly might be for the best. I doubt any boy still lurking in my romantic archives wants to be forever linked to “I Ran (So Far Away)” by A Flock of Seagulls.

I have no idea whether the soundtrack to my poetry book will incite you to Shake Your Bootie (the track is on there, of course), get a little nostal-swoony (If You Leave Me Now Now), biturbo your feather dusting, or provide an eclectic mix for a road trip. You may never press play, because maybe you already know it’s not going to be your vibe. And that’s absolutely fine.

But if you do find yourself hovering a finger over the link, know that each track comes with a story, as well as – I hope – a colourful sprinkling of magic. I’d love to know whether any of these tracks mean something to you, and if so, whether you’d like to share any feelings or memories they invoke. Or tell me about songs I haven’t included on the playlist that are special to you. I’d love that!!

Please join me in this virtual disco launch party. I can’t wait to hear from you!

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy listening. The playlist is rather random, just like me.

Illicit Croissants at Dawn, The Soundtrack (and I even added the book cover to Spotify. Such a techno-genius). Please feel free to share it with your friends.

Happy Easter Weekend,

Lots of love,

Francesca xx

PS: don’t forget to tell me about songs that sweep you away to other times and places, whether illicit or aboveboard.

(My daughter Olivia Bossert designed the cover for my book, and also did some illustrations. The hardback copy contains coloured illustrations, whereas in the paperback version, I had to choose to make the illustrations black and white to keep the book reasonably priced.)

WEATHER FORECAST: continuous snowfall, with a 60% chance of ABBA

Wednesday afternoon, the three Gods of April time-travelled to an Abba concert in 1976 but missed the last DeLorean home.

 

They finally clattered back through their front door thirty-six hours later, wearing their matching sparkly fuchsia platform boots, blue satin hot pants and yellow puff-sleeved shirts, covered in glitter and still shit-faced from too many shots of Aquavit.

 

One of them – who prided himself on never throwing caution to the wind - turned on his computer and fired up the news, wondering whether there were any updates on the tariff palaver. He had shares in Lindor balls, so with Easter coming up he figured he’d have a quick look.

 

He saw the headlines, clapped his hands onto his head, and collapsed back onto the sofa in horror.

 

“Guys!” he yelled to the two other who were busy brushing their teeth. “We messed up!”

 

Two bleary-eyed, tangled-haired gods appeared in the living room in their Hermes Y-fronts, their toothbrushes hanging out of the side of their mouths.

 

“Huh?” they mumbled. Their toothbrushes bobbed up and down.

 

“We forgot to switch back to 2025 and accidentally dumped two metres of snow on parts of the Alps in thirty-six hours! It’s Casey’s Court out there! Villages are cut off, people marooned.”

 

“Yikes,” said one of the toothbrushed gods, removing his brush and pulling a face. “Well, at least the snow reflects our glitter nicely.”

The third god plodded over to the window and peered out at the chaos far below.

“We’re going to have to send down some sunshine to melt all that,” he muttered, scratching his bum. “But not too much. My hangover feels about as big as Stockholm.”

The first god groaned and flopped back against the back of the couch, clutching his glittery head. “Next time, we’re only going to see ABBA if someone remembers the return coordinates.”

“Good plan,” the others said, nodding.

A moment passed.

“Also,” said the second god, “did you notice how Björn looked at me during Dancing Queen? I felt a connection.”

Silence. Then the first god rolled over, looked at him with bloodshot eyes, and mumbled, “You were dressed like a disco duck. So, yeah, there certainly was some sort of moment.”

Outside, the snow kept on falling. Somewhere in the Alps, a snowboard instructor named Greg was digging out his car with his helmet, singing Bob Marley’s “Stir it Up”. Meanwhile, above the clouds, three hungover, glitter-spattered immortals found Mamma Mia on Starflix, brought out their crayons and began drawing sunrays.

*****

My poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, is now available on all the AMAZONS!

 

 

 

GOOSEBERRY

 

I am a gooseberry today,

Words crash onto the keyboard,

Great, lumbering doozies.

 

My fingertips won’t twizzle,

Or salsa or cha-cha-cha.

They cacophony, they kerfuffle

To boos and whistle-hisses,

Slipping on syllables,

Wounding haikus,

Bungling about like bad ideas

In spandex and stilettos

With even worse hair.

Pre-Launch jitters?

Wake me up when tomorrow comes…