Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 25

THE ORIGINS OF POLE DANCING

Instead of counting sheep tonight, for some reason my mind is engaged in establishing that Maypole dancing was the precursor to pole dancing.

 

Random? Bonkers? Okay okay…

 

Wait! Don’t buzz off yet. Because a group of particularly lit and reputable neurones in the far-left recesses of my pink brain (see “Could my Grey Matter be Pink”) have put forward an argument worth considering.

 

Imagine, if you will, catastrophic ribbon entanglement during a rehearsal for an extremely complex and highly confidential Maypole spectacular. Imagine that this yippedyskippedy was to be performed before the court of a famous and somewhat short tempered man, namely King Henry VIII. Surely a knotted fiasco before such an important event would immediately prompt all participants to skedaddle to Scotland and hurl themselves through the famous Outlander stones, ideally straight into the arms of Jamie Fraser and co.!

 

That’s where Guinevere, a lithe, determined lass from Lancashire comes in. Gwynne rubs her hands on her petticoat to dry them off, then orders stout old Edwina (from Yorkshire, according to a cluster of more recently formed neurones huddling close to my pineal gland) to give her a leg up. Gwynne then wraps her long, muscular, opalescent legs around the pole, finds her grip and, hey presto, up she goes.

 

Once she’s summited, Gwynne secures herself to the pole with the only loose ribbon available. From there, she’s able to relax, gently swinging above her incredulous, much relieved friends while she unravels the knot. Finally, when everything sways once again freely in the gentle Gloucestershire breeze, she slides gracefully back to earth, performing a series of acrobatic moves on the way down, just for fun.

 

“Hmmm, I think she’s onto something,” thinks Jenny, a smart cookie from the stable block, tossing her luxuriant chestnut locks. She clenches her strong upper thighs and mighty buttocks beneath her skirt.

 

Testing, testing.

 

The rest is (alternative?!) history.

Cesca xxx 

 

 

GO FIGURE

So pretty!!!

Today I figure

That my figure

Is the best figure

I’ve had in a long time.

Go figure!

Che bella figura che faccio!

TRULY HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Hello!

I feel incredibly joyful and grateful this year, because I honestly have not felt this great for…well, I don’t even know when I last felt this good. Destiny is a weird and wonderful thing: back in July, if Cedric hadn’t randomly run into my friend Leslie at his golf club in Bonmont, Switzerland, I would never have heard about Dr Santos in Barcelona. To be honest, I didn’t really harbour much hope, because my gastroenterologist in Geneva didn’t have anything more to offer me apart from immunosuppressants, and other doctors told me that there was no way a doctor in Spain would have an alternative solution.

But Dr Santos did. I waited two and a half months for an appointment, couldn’t even get to the appointment because I was too sick to travel, so we spoke via Skype, which was fine since he had already looked at the medical file I’d sent him, read my detailed email, (which to be honest is definitely not a given; how many times have I arrived for an appointment with a specialist to be asked what can I do for you, and have to use most of the allotted (short!I) time of the appointment explaining my symptoms) so we could just get straight into the small details of my symptoms. He suggested a different cortisone (I have collagenous colitis) which turned out to not be available in Switzerland or France. Two days after the Skype consultation I managed to fly to Barcelona, took the medicine the next morning, and I have been symptom free ever since.

Also, Dr Santos suspects I have another autoimmune disease (it seems it’s often the case with colitis) which would explain the constant aches and pains throughout my body. He prescribed a neurological medication, and my pain vanished within 48 hours! Gone! All of it!

It “only” took four years to find a doctor who listened to me, and knew how to help!

Never give up.

Love

Cesca

S’Agaro coastal path, Costa Brava, Spain

I air my skin,

Let it jiggle with joy,

Dip the new me in the sea

Twirl into a tutu of frothy waves,

Not in my birthday suit,

But simply on my birthday.

Happy Birthday to Me!

 

DON’T WORRY, IT’S ONLY KETCHUP, REALLY

These days, I amuse myself imagining meanies and trollops

In dire straits,

Rendered suddenly penniless,

And with no chips for free.

Don’t worry,

It’s only ketchup, really…

ESMERALDA IS WATCHING YOU

(image Matheus Frade, Unsplash)

It had been one hell of party, and the ballroom was strewn with the wrinkled, ripped relics of the lavish celebration. The glass floor oozed sticky with giggle-splurted champagne, oopsied canapés, ick-spat caviar, and other all sorts of other accidentally regurgitated delicatessen.

 

The self-satisfied, abdominally well-endowed host lingered for a while, savouring his rigged victory. He sucked awkwardly on a Nicaraguan cigar far too fat for his under-developed mouth. Nevertheless, he did what he could with his limited oral means; after all, this exceptional cigar had been delivered via diplomatic pouch from behind so-called enemy lines, and a secret loyalty made him determined to see it through. Sprawled out on the piano stool, his enormous gut enjoying free access to the wreckage that stretched out before him like an exhausted strumpet, fatty pursed his porcine lips as he sucked noisily on the Padrón 1926 series 2 Torpedo.

 

Ha! Good old Dimitri had come through for him again in the nick of time.

 

Meanwhile, hidden behind the heavy blood-red velvet curtain on the stage where, just a short while ago, international has-been Henrietta Blanche had received a standing ovation for her operetta-style interpretation of the national anthem, a gorgeous, raven-haired young woman reapplied her lip-gloss, then pushed her dainty feet back into her silver Manolo’s.

 

“Esmeralda is watching you,” she said quietly. She aimed a peanut at the center of the big oaf’s ridiculous faded ginger combover. Bullseye! Then she spun on her 8-centimetre heels and ran off into the night.

 

ORANGE MUSK

Good morning,Like so many, I couldn't get to sleep last night. We've been watching Disclaimer (I think that's the title...with Cate Blanchett and Kevin Kline), it's really good if you're looking for something new to watch. It's on Apple. When I went to bed I tried to listen to my book (Liane Moriarty's new one, Here One Moment) but a million monkeys were running around in my head, gabbling. So, I turned the light back on and started writing poetry. The monkeys kept interrupting, so I gave them free rein and got Orange Musk. Hmmm....Woohoo... And then the timer on my book ran out...I still feel hectic inside, and should probably do a few guided meditations today, it won't do me any harm. I use an app called Insight Timer, there are all kinds of magical things on there, including our own Jen who writes here under the handle Inky Stars.I think I'll go float around on there for a while, maybe we'll run into each other...I'm also going to work on the poetry anthology I'm putting together, so I'm selecting some of my poems. My daughter Olivia Bossert who is a fashion photographer and an artist has agreed to do some illustrations for me. It will be so nice to have a mother/daughter book out in the world!Meanwhile, I give you last's night's cacophony...

ORANGE MUSK

A cacophony of semi-formed expletives

Currently clogs

My wtf.

Experiencing ongoing scalp crawl,

Wires raw, exposed, flailing

Pinballing anger.

Stop.

Mayday-rewind-fast-forward-stop-arrest-the-lot-imprison-do-something-ffs

Release the goddamn oxygen masks,

The airwaves reek of orange musk.

This is not a drill.

Thank you for reading,

Big hugs,

Francesca xx

COME FOR TEA

Today, I will detach,

Let go,

Like yet another heart-shaped golden leaf shaking loose

From the poplars with a shivering sigh.

I will admire the tired, heart-shaped golden leaves

Resting in the grass beneath this despondent November sky,

And I will thank them for having been spectacular.

 

They will return, unfold, take heart,

Wearing New Season’s optimistic-baby-leaf-green.

 

Until then, I will seek heart-shapes,

Find them in unexpected places,

Collect them in my heart-space,

And share them like a doll’s fine bone china tea-service.

 

Will you come for tea?

 

 

LEOPARD

Today I wear leopard,

The print of WOMEN WHO WON’T GO BACK,

Because we’re ALL worth it,

And because today affects all of us,

One way or another,

Wherever we are.

LETTER TO AMERICA

You were so exciting, so shiny. You were legendary.

When I grew up, you were a mirage of confident pretty girls with good teeth and thick, long, tousled hair, and of boys in Hanes tee-shirts and Levi’s who wore their cute smiles on the lazy side of life, gazing up tantalisingly at the world through a floppy fringe that they tossed or blew on so that it cleared their eyelashes. I saw America like those gorgeous, romantic Coca Cola advertisements in cinemas, especially the one where a hot guy and a cute girl met during a little fender bender… It made me almost want to get into a fender bender. And then there was the Marlboro man, riding through canyons and camping and lighting fires. And smoking of course, which looked hot, but turned out not to be. Sometimes I liked the adverts better than the actual movie.

Of course, I thought all you young American kids Noxzema-tingled your faces morning and night, never had a zit, and wore bell-bottoms at a perfect length so that they frayed just-so beneath your sneakers. All you young girls had Bonne Bell lip-gloss in exciting flavours like strawberry and blueberry and peppermint and – obviously - Coke. You smelled of Charlie and Jontue by Revlon. You had Christie Brinkley and Cheryl Tiegs and the fabulous Farrah, and the Six Million Dollar Man, and the 4th of July, right there! You blew the biggest gum bubbles and managed to look knowing and smile flirtatiously as you chewed and blew and popped and laughed.

The boys twangily woah-gushed on the merits of Mustangs and Firebirds and Corvettes, while eight-track cassette decks blasted Steve Miller and The Eagles and the Doobie Brothers into sunshine and sea spray and palm trees and ocean.

You roller-skated, you surfed. You went to school proms in weird blue suits and frilly dresses that never seemed to fit properly, yet were still so madly desirable, because they came from shops with legendary names, like Macys and Saks. You made-out at drive-ins, or beneath something mysterious called bleachers, which sounded romantic and swoony and sea-swept, as though you’d be limb-and-tongue-tangling on soft sand among shells and driftwood, but weren’t, as I later learned, which totally sucked because that image photographed better in my mental movie.

You had Sears and Seventeen Magazine, and access to all kinds of insane stuff in a catalogue called the Sharper Image, like telescopes and tanning beds and chairs that vibrated and massaged you with weird rolling-beads while you drank Cherry Coke and watched Happy Days on one of your many channels on your big televisions. You had Hollywood and popcorn, and hamburgers and dozens of shops you called stores that were grouped together in something called a mall that sounded ever so exciting to hang out in. You had bowling alleys and aerobics and spaceships and cowboys and flipping Disneyland for goodness’s sake!

You sounded like so much fun!

We all wanted to be you! Truly, we did!

But something curdled. And of course, you’re not alone in going off… Really, you’re not. The entire world is pretty damn curdled. There’s worse curdling elsewhere, for sure.

But we’re hoping for a miracle. For something gentle and kind and compassionate, something with common sense. Gentle but strong at the same time. Something real.

Because we love you, really.

Fingers crossed.

Francesca xx

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THE MYSTERY OF THE POUTY-LIP THING (and musings on miracles)

Qrac: expert pouter

I shall celebrate today,

Give myself a little breast-bone-rub,

With a side-dish of attitude

Involving that pouty-lip thing,

That we all tend to do when we dance.

Incidentally, what is that?

Is it a reflex?

A show of self-consciousness?

An involuntary ancestral come-hither for sexy-time?

Like, did cavemen do it?!

 

Anyway, I’m breast-bone-rubbed and pouty,

Smug as the most popular girl at school.

I’m delightedly, incredulously pain-free,

And the-other-thing-that-shall-not-be-named-

In-case-I-jinx-it free too!!

 

Today, I laughed and smiled and walked and wrote

and didn’t worry about eating and swam alone at dusk in velvet cool water, then cycled home slaloming around rabbits.

 

Today, for the 18th consecutive day,

After almost five years of WTF-is-happening-OMG-I’m-falling-to-pieces,

I’m intact.

I feel like ME.