Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 23

TOY STORY

Picture the scene.

Late 90s,

A weekday, mid-afternoon.

Toy section,

Elegant shopping centre, pretty mamas in fifty-shades-of-creamy-beige.

French manicure de-rigueur.

I’d clock him at around

Five years old.

Golden skin,

Jet black hair,

Sapphire eyes.

Imagine the most stunning little angel imaginable, and then imagine even more stunningness.

“Mais qu’il est beau, votre fils,” French-manured ladies swoon-say to his mama, clutching their Cartier.

Yeah, happened a lot.

Now, block your ears and avert your eyes.

You’ve seen him.

He’s gorgeous.

Now please evacuate the building.

Quick.

P is his middle initial.

Should have been.

P for Pavarotti.

And P for Pest. That works, too.

So does Pasticcione, if you speak Italian. Cute, eh? I know, I love that word.

And it suits him. Cutest pest, like, everrrr.

That cacophony? Yes, it’s Pavarotti the Pest. He wants a toy.

Sure, he can have one! The problem is he can’t decide. It’s been three hundred and twenty-five hours.

Dinky Toy? Hot Wheels? Digger? Ferrari? Howdy-Dudie? (Audi; I kid you not)

I don’t think he’s good at decisions…

So, I get that after so many hours his Mama might growl a little. Only at the back of her throat, mind you. She’s nice. Patient, too. Then she says, “Right, that’s it; we’re going.”

Tots TV-La Traviata-The Ring-Metallica-Scatman-Bohemian Rhapsody-Thomas the Tank Engine.

Blimey! He’s belting them out all at once. A mash-up!

Woah… Skills!

And look, he’s doing it on his belly, too, hanging onto the wheels of the trolley, while being dragged at many-miles-an-hour across the entire shopping centre.

Pasticcione’s Got Talent.

Pink quivering tonsils paired with fire-red cheeks never looked so adorable.

To think the child turned down a lucrative advertising campaign for a luxury watch brand.

Kids.

Kaching my tipping jar!

TWAS THE MESS BEFORE CHRISTMAS (and where are my elves?)

I need to get cracking,

Must tidy my mess,

My husband is coming

I’ve shit to address!

 

The house isn’t dirty

No, I’ve not been a pig!

I just get distracted

By creative gigs.

 

My crochet is sprawled out

She’s a diva, I swear,

Three years after appearing

She’s still not quite there.

 

As for books, well God help me,

They’ve a life of their own!

More and more keep appearing,

It’s a mystery untold.

 

My laptop has helpers.

Well, doesn’t Santa have elves?

I have notebooks and biscuits,

A teapot, good pens.

 

Yes, the bedroom needs sorting,

My clothes chair’s piled high.

The TV’s a clotheshorse

For damp stuff to dry…

 

And it’s Christmas, have you noticed?

I have presents to wrap.

But they won’t wrap themselves,

So come on now, snip snap!

 

Because tomorrow he’ll be here.

No, not Santa! Get real!

The cutie I married,

The neat freak of my dreams!

 

BUY ME AN ELF!!!!

(Or buy my funny book! Just click on the image… If you’re not in the UK, it’s available on all the Amazons!)

COOL JEANS

It’s just a flare,

He says, steepled hands on his desk,

And I recall that confident girl in -

Was it 8th grade? -

In possibly the coolest jeans I’ve ever seen.

Skintight to the knee,

Then blossoming out like exuberant light blue tulips.

White paisley embroidery, right?

Possibly, he says, looking at me oddly.

I take a breath and my ribcage complains,

As dozens of tiny electric spiders crawl around my scapula.

No embroidery for me.

Still,

It’s just a flare.

MY BEST FRIEND SECRETLY SENT MY MANUSCRIPT TO AN AGENT AND…

Artwork by www.oliviabossert.com

 

Like Harry Styles at my front door,

Fame rocked up out of nowhere,

Landing a contract with a legendary agent

On my unsuspecting, pale and pudgy

Thighs with a destabilising splat.

 

Frost Glistening Like Manhattan,

A cheeky, racy Tinkerbell of a tale,

Wrenched me from my quiet Cornish corner,

From my decadent,

Top Secret daydreams,

Casting me into a shiny international

Frying pan where I writhed with sizzling mortification,

Nodding gormlessly at

Swashbuckling, tiger-toothed swaggerbraggers

Wink-whispering leave-it-all-up-to-me’s.

 

High on bidding wars and vertiginous advances,

On films rights and merchandising,

On Luxury Product Placement,

On All The Things,

They cooed and coaxed and commanded.

 

Deals were done,

Hands shaken,

Contracts signed,

Millions exchanged.

 

Just as the temperature receded,

Enabling me to scurry back to my quayside cottage in

Mousehole and put the kettle on,

Along came TikTok hysteria,

GoodReads squabbles,

Bookstagram deliberations.

 

There were also

Interviews galore,

And various award nominations.

 

I received umpteen television solicitations, too,

All of which I turned down,

Only to be foiled, once again,

When my Best Friend

Snuck Michael McIntyre and his entire camera crew

Into my home at witching hour.

 

Caught oinking the night away,

Wearing

Nothing

But

Nivea,

I sat up, looked directly into the camera and declared,

 

“There shall NOT be a sequel.”

 

That sequence went viral.

 

BUY ME A COFFEE

HER BODY WANTS TO BE SPANISH

I saw myself today,

While I sat in a car,

A funky little baby pink Fiat 500,

At a Spanish traffic light,

On my way

To do what I do, which

I’m imagining is something fun

Because, well, cute car, right?

 

I believe I have a craft shop in Girona

With a window full of

Yarn and Beads and Ribbon and Paints,

And all sorts of Books

To inspire the

Very Best Ideas,

Which is obviously what I named my shop,

Except in this case it would be, I think,

Las Mejores Ideas,

But do please

Correct me if I’m wrong,

Because I won’t mind.

Not at all!

 

Anyway, I saw myself cross the street

Just slightly off the pedestrian crossing (such a rebel!)

In my bright pink and sandy-beige belted coat

And new silver shoes,

And I said to myself, Ooh,

I love my pink and sandy-beige coat and silver shoes

I look so cool,

So happy and healthy,

I bet I’m an artist or a poet; something awesome for sure,

But probably not from around here,

Although my body

Definitely looks like it wants to be Spanish.

 

 

But then the traffic light turned green,

So, although I’d have loved to linger

Just a little longer,

Watching myself saunter down the street

In my cool coat and shoes,

Looking very nearly Spanish,

Someone behind me honked.

 

I simply smiled to myself

In my little baby pink Fiat 500,

Turned the music up (Stir it Up, Bob Marley!)

And putt-putted to Las Mejores Ideas

In a narrow cobblestoned street in the old town

Where I spent the afternoon knitting

A bright pink scarf trimmed with sandy fringes

While a blonde lady

Read funny poetry to a crowd of

Mesmerized

Human Beings

With Stars in their Eyes.

 

TIS THE SEASON FOR SCINTILLATING CONVERSATION

Artwork by www.oliviabossert.com

Darling!Notice how I’ve matched the twinkle in my eye to the twinkle in my outfit and banter tonight. Nice touch, eh?Well, I simply turned on my super-deluxe-sparkling-sedan-suave mode, Darling. Yah! Clever-Clodhoppers, that’s me!But let us get in there and schmooze, Darling. There is no time to lose; this level of scintillation isn’t energetically sustainable for very long.Oh, Darling, you know I always turn into a turnip, sometimes even before midnight!Power low...Shoes OffBra OffKerplunk. Buy me some sparkles

Need to escape the pressure of having to make scintillating conversation? Lose yourself in my romantic comedy, JUST LIKE A MOVIE Plenty of fun banter, lots of romance, a little spice, and a whole lot of giggles! Available on all the Amazons. Merry Christmas!

NINCOMPOOP

There is little I dislike more

Than a surge of adrenaline that inevitably

Turns me into

A sweaty, scatty, nincompoop

With tumbleweed-in-a tornado for brains.

 

If the Nervous Nincompoop Club need a spokesperson, I’m their girl!

 

Incoherent gabbling, smelly armpits and zoomies guaranteed.

 

 

Impeccable references, available upon request.

 

Buy me some deodorant

 

 Need to escape the Gloomies? Click on the link! JUST LIKE A MOVIE provides lasting relief from doom and gloom. Click and Smile!

ANGRY MASSEUSE

the sunset last night. No filters! My body felt quite sunsetty too!

 

Was she angry?

Not with me, of course.

I knew that.

Could it be the state of the world?

Had frost killed her bougainvillea?

I’d have been pissed about that, too.

Or had her husband bought her a hand-held mixer

Or a juicer

Or an ugly ornament

For her birthday?

It’s amazing what my mind does

When inside I’m yelling, yikes, WTF?

Should I have asked her what was the matter?

Because surely there was something.

Because I kept saying,

In my ridiculous, typical, gentle English manner

Err…gently?... Gently...?

Maybe I should have said what I kept on saying a little louder,

Like, OY! FFS GENTLY!

Especially when she

Just

Kept

Kneading.

 

And now her anger tingles inside me.

 

Why am I so damn polite?

 

Note to self: no more massage. I never enjoy them.

 

RIDE LIKE THE WIND

Following my recent and unexpected reversal of fortune, I am pleased to announce that I once again plan on being a galloping grandma

Although not necessarily a real grandma - no pressure, kids, really! - I am quite happy being a galloping old lady

I believe the baby connotation is more of a literary accessory, anyway; did you know there are playlists for coastal grandmothers?

I shall make a galloping grandma playlist

Ride like the Wind, Nana

Contribute towards a pony

ASKING FOR A FRIEND

Camiral sunset, Girona, Catalunya

If you have a nap,

And wake up three hors later,

Is it still a nap?

Buy me a hot water bottle