Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 3

WHEN I AM WELL

 

When I am well, I shall wear cowboy boots and long, floaty dresses, with chunky sweaters layered over the top when the autumn chill blows in.

I’ll team these with cotton — or maybe even cashmere — tights, because nylons give you fishy fanny, and as for stockings? One word: cellulite.

Of course, I’ll wear jeans too — loose, boot-cut Levi’s 501s or Farrah Fawcett flares, with T-shirts or embroidered peasant blouses. I picture a cape as well — something wide and soft and luxe that I can toss over my shoulder with panache, to keep my neck warm when the cold wind blows.

By the time I am well, my hair will be incredibly long. I’ll wear it in a messy up-do to keep it off my neck, which I try not to feel bad about, because even saggy necks are beautiful.

Say it.

Believe it.

Oh, fuck it. Saggy necks kind of suck.

Anyway, I’ll take my floaty, cosy, saggy-necked-yet-beautiful — and most importantly, very healthy — self to art exhibitions wearing bright red lipstick, where I shall smile knowingly at the work exhibited, or quizzically tilt my head while nonchalantly teasing a glass of champagne.

I’ll go to bookstores too, trundling my nifty little polka-dotted trolley, because books are heavy and I can never resist buying far too many. I’ll buy novels and cookbooks and — ooh! — books on home décor and gardens.

And when I get home, my husband will look through them, pick one up and say,
“But don’t you already have this book about cottage gardens?”
And I’ll reply, possibly a little testily,
“I’ll have you know that this is Arabellah Gherkin-Devine’s new book on cottage gardens,”
and flounce past him into the living room where I’ll light a fire and curl up with my glossy stash and a mug of tea.

Of course, I’ll then be struck with all sorts of wild ideas, and dream of swapping our minimalist, Scandi kitchen for seaside cosy-clutter chic, complete with duck-blue Aga.

I’ll want to trade all the ecru curtains for something with a little more oomph, and wallpaper the bedrooms, and — mais bien sûr! — dig up a good part of the garden to create a pond-slash-natural swimming pool.

Because how dreamy would that be to swim in?

When I am well, I shall have a gentle-mannered Cavalier King Charles, soft as butter, who will gaze at me with golden googly eyes, certain I’m the most beautiful woman in the universe, even as I pluck whiskers from my chin. Together we’ll go for gentle walks down country lanes, picking wildflowers and talking to the cows.

When I am well, my husband and I will once more become spontaneous.
We’ll go to restaurants with friends.
Attend parties, where I’ll no longer simply gaze longingly at those scrumptious grazing tables, wishing there was something for me.

We’ll take trips to Venice and Copenhagen, to Amsterdam and Rome.
We’ll go to the theatre, to concerts, and to the cinema.

When I am well, I might wear cowboy boots, and loose, floaty dresses, and get funky at exhibitions and bookshops and do all the rest of that wild and wacky jazz.

But most importantly —

When I am well,
I shall begin
To live again.

DERNIERE MINUTE: NUIT DE FOLIE AU CHATEAU DE WINDSOR

Chaos au château de Windsor la nuit dernière, après que Donald Trump aurait tenté de s’introduire en douce dans la chambre royale pendant que le roi Charles prenait son bain.

Camilla a été aperçue fuyant à toute allure dans les couloirs du château, vêtue d’une chemise de nuit vintage Laura Ashley bleu canard et blanc, bigoudis vissés sur la tête, tandis que Donald trottinait derrière, vêtu d’un caleçon rouge satin Make America Great Again, et rien d’autre.

Oh my God! Charles surgit rouge et ruisselant, appelant aussitôt la garde royale, qui a escorté Donald jusqu’aux cachots. Il y a été enfermé avec un seau, une couverture en laine Shetland mega gratouille, et un exemplaire de Crime et Châtiment de Dostoïevski. Des témoins affirment l’avoir entendu plus tard siffler “Oops!... I Did It Again”.

Camilla et Melania ont été vues déambulant sur les remparts du château, en pleine conversation animée. Camilla aurait jeté un petit objet métallique dans les douves, provoquant des applaudissements ravis de Melania. Les deux femmes auraient ensuite dansé au clair de lune sur “Single Ladies”.

La presse surnomme désormais Camilla « celle qui lui a filé entre les doigts ».

Caroline Levitt devait tenir une conférence de presse dans l’après-midi, mais aurait finalement démissionné pour partir avec le frère cadet du cousin de Jimmy Kimmel.

Pam Bondi, de son côté, a refusé de commenter.

 

BREAKING NEWS: BEDLAM AT WINDSOR CASTLE: Boxers, buckets and Beyoncé - Windsor’s Wildest Night Yet

 

Bedlam at Windsor Castle last night after Donald Trump allegedly attempted to sneak into the Royal bedchamber while King Charles was in the bath.

 

Camilla was seen fleeing through the royal hallways in a vintage duck-blue and white flannel Laura Ashley nightie and curlers, with Donald in doddery pursuit - wearing nothing but his Make America Great Again red satin boxers.

 

Ructions ensued. Charles had a fit, summoning the royal guards who escorted Donald to the dungeons, where he was locked in a cell with a bucket and a very itchy, old Shetland wool blanket, and a copy of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Donald was later heard whistling “Oops!... I Did It Again.”

 

Camilla and Melania were spotted strolling the castle ramparts, talking animatedly. Camilla tossed something small and metallic into the moat below, whereupon Melania clapped with delight. The two were seen dancing in the moonlight to “All The Single Ladies.”

 

The press is calling Camilla “the one who got away.”

 

Caroline Levitt was initially expected to hold a press conference in the early afternoon, but has since resigned from her post and run off with Jimmy Kimmel’s second cousin’s younger brother.

 

Pam Bondi has declined to comment.

 

OH, TO BE A DRUNKEN SAILOR TODAY!

 

 

Oh, to be a drunken sailors today,

With the wind in our sails,

Whisking from one scrumptious endeavour

To the next!

 

We might start with breakfast

At the fabulous bakery on the water

Where they make cinnamon buns!

We’d bring our books, or a magazine —

Or maybe not,

because it might be nice to

Simply chat, right?

And obviously checking our phones

Would be never in a million years, Sauvage!

 

We’d give the contents of our tummies

plenty of time to

boogie on down

with a sprightly stroll

to wherever our hearts might lead us.

Which is — get this! —

Into a craft shop

Where we’d browse

watercolours in enchanting colours,

And caress exquisite paper from Japan.

 

You might spill turquoise and silver

Sparkles on your jeans,

Because you got a little too impatient

Trying to open the samples,

But the lady at the counter would say:

Oh, mais c’est pas grave ! or

non preoccuparti !

It happens all the time!

 

We’d sail on home,

Still blobby from our coffee

and cinnamon buns,

and some sneaky pains au chocolat.

 

I might do a little crochet -

Because, seriously,

this bedcover needs to get done -

While you work on your bestselling novel

(Or maybe a crossword,

If crosswords tickle your fancy).

 

We’d break for a late lunch,

Hoist our biggest, fattest sail and whizz across the water

To the little restaurant with the navy-blue cloths and white napkins,

Where the waiters are always happy to see us

And their limoncello sorbet

Makes our toes curl in ecstasy!

 

Of course, by the time we zig-zagged back to port

It would be siesta time

In a spot Goldilocks would definitely approve of.

 

Afterwards?

Might I suggest an Aperol Spritz

To match the sunset

And a salad with mango and avocado,

A sprinkle of cilantro,

With just a hint of chilli heat?

 

 

 

UP YOU GET: your knees were never meant for grovelling

And you, amor, you shine!

Did you know

You shine

Just as brightly as

The person you worship?

 

And that if what once felt

Like the splinter of a chicken bone

Lodged in your throat

Has petridished into

A whopper straight out of

Jurassic Park,

Then sweetie,

You’ve been

Circling the altar on your knees

For far too long.

 

Up you get.

Bin the bunting,

The banners,

The balloons.

 

Grab two handfuls of confetti,

Toss them high

And twirl in the spotlight

Like the heroine

Of your own damn movie.

  

HOW TO BECOME A WORLD CLASS POET: A Masterclass in Making it Up as you Go

Photography: Susan Wilkinson, Unsplash

First of all,

Do not take yourself seriously.

Shrug, shake, give a little whistle.

Tell yourself

You’re not too fussed

About becoming a World Class Anything.

 

Just saunter in,

And wiggle into some wild word doodling.

 

Get groovy, baby!

Trip over your adjectives,

Subvert your verbs,

Tart up your metaphors,

And pull funny faces at the rules.

 

You’re a World Class Poet,

Sweetie.

And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

 

I SHALL NOT BE TAKING THE LITERARY WORLD BY STORM TODAY

Badu, busy on dreamcatching patrol

🐈

I shall not

be taking the literary world by storm today -

No cartwheels or capers

shall escape these lactose-free fingers.

 

I shall hide away

from the worldwide hullaballoo,

say no to

tickertapes and newsreels,

and count my blessings to the rhythm of

my little white cat’s contented purr.

 

My misty mind will drift,

glimpsing glimmers

fluttering around my pillow -

to be caught in my dreamcatcher’s web

and saved

for a sunnier day.

 

ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN - poetry

THE SEDUCTION: how to smoulder without saying a word

 

 

I remember how

I bewitched him that evening

Swathed in my shy and slinky —

In a burst of sudden, inexplicable bravado,

How I tilted my chin just so,

Lips caught between a smile

And the smidgeon of a pout

As I flicked my lashes down, then up again,

Skewering him with a slanted glance of my emerald eyes.

 

I remember how

He gasped

As I rose from my seat

Slow, deliberate —

In whispers of

Silk and cashmere

Misted with

Rive Gauche.

 

I remember how I turned

Slowly —

Feeling the burn of his ice-blue eyes on me.

 

Sharp intake of breath.

 

I smiled at him over my shoulder

As heat simmered in my belly  —

The promise of

 

Heat.

GONE TO GROUND

You will not find me today.Pathetically apathetic, I lie, a blanketed puddle of despondency,depleted by the outlandish misfirings of my muddled body.There is a leak in my stiff upper lipAnd my joie-de-vivre has taken a sick day.Outside a storm swirls.Snap.

MISE EN SCENE

Un rouge à lèvres qui m’illumine,Des extensions de cils sublimes,Un teint lissé made in Korea,Douleurs cachées, pommettes blushées,Super crevée, toujours lookée.Mes cheveux brillent ? Glamour survie !Mes yeux vous racontent mille mensongesPendant que mes osBrûlent en silenceEt mes médocs proscrivent mes larmes,Malgré mon chaos intestinal.