Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 48

THE CARNATIONS RAP

Carnations tend to get a bad rap.

People snob them, say they’re crap.

But I quite like their laid-back style,

Their funky colours make me smile.

 

They last far longer than tulips, Dutch.

They don’t fall over, drink too much.

For a budget friendly cheerful bouquet,

Give me carnations any day!

CHOCOLATE

What’s your favourite chocolate bar?

Is it Bounty, Snickers, Kitkat, Mars?

What about a Branche Cailler?

Do they sell those over where you live?

 

Do you like the cheaper chocs, from Supermarkets,

Regular stuff.

Or do you prefer your chocolate chichi,

From chocolatiers with cool boutiques?

 

Those artisanal bars, all rough and lumpy,

Sold by weight with ceremonial.

Pretty shopgirls all dressed up,

Will coax you into buying more.

 

Are pralines your thing?

Those tiny bites,

With fancy fillings

That surprise.

 

What about a Toblerone?

Those things are yummy, don’t you think?

Yet eating them can be quite hard,

The bigger ones can bruise your gums!

 

Lindor balls, the scoundrel classic

Once you’ve eaten one you’ve had it!

The entire box will be scoffed down,

In absent-minded yum yum yum.

 

I have a thing for dark black Lindt,

With sea-salt, ooh that stuff’s deadly,

I’ll pop a piece into my mouth,

And let it melt, then have some more!

 

Actually, I really shouldn’t.

Chocolate doesn’t help my tummy.

Lactose is my sworn enemy

But sometimes I just can’t resist.

 

The Easter Bunny is a creep,

With Christmas over along he hops,

He crams the shelves with deadly stuff,

That spikes our glucose, wrecks our teeth.

  

Anyway, I’d better go,

Write something serious, my novel,

I went to Dong for more pick-picks,

And fell asleep for over an hour!

 

Dong woke me up by pulling out (NB: Valerie B you have a filthy mind!)

Those needles up and down my back,

He did some cupping for my neck,

Then sent me on my merry way.

JUST LIKE A MOVIE: THE MOVIE!

NEVER GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAM!

I received a wonderful email when I woke up this morning.

The screenwriter in Hollywood who is developing the screenplay of my romantic comedy, JUST LIKE A MOVIE, sent me what he has written so far and asked for my feedback.

I don’t know this person. He is the friend of a friend who has written numerous screenplays and won awards for his work. He heard about my book, bought it, loved it, and felt it should be a movie.

I am giddy with excitement!

Now, let me take you back to the beginning of the epic saga that JUST LIKE A MOVIE has been in my life for over twenty years.

Once upon a time I felt like crap. While from the outside my life – and by this I also mean my extended family’s life – appeared normal, but in reality, all sorts of dark things were going on: Illness, death, redundancies, mental health issues, abuse, divorce, court cases...

I felt stuck in a whirling vortex of never-ending catastrophes.

I’m hyper-sensitive and don’t cope well under stress. Being bombarded with terrible news day after day took its toll. I had two young children, a husband with a demanding job, and I needed to find a coping mechanism.

Back then therapy wasn’t as readily available as it is today; it never even occurred to me that I could seek outside help from a professional. I had many friends, but most of the issues that were affecting me were far too personal to discuss with anyone with whom I wasn’t ultra-close. My best friend had moved to Ibiza and international phone calls were expensive back then. The only solution I found suggested I turn inwards.

So, one day, when my husband had gone to work and the children were at school, I went into my office, sat down at my computer and began to write a story.

I’d been to visit my best friend in Ibiza a couple of times and had fallen in love with the island. Also, I had a hilarious crush on Ricky Martin who had burst into my life on television one morning singing Maria (Un Dos Tres). What better escape could there possibly be than to spend the next few months in Ibiza having wild, crazy, romantic adventures with Ricky Martin and some my favourite girlfriends?

I grabbed a Café del Mar CD and went to work. The book took off as though writing itself. It almost felt like all I was doing was transcribing a brilliant, entertaining movie. With my poster of Ricky Martin above my computer, and my little CD player by my side, every day I would escape to Ibiza and hang out with my gang. Ricky Martin became Emilio Caliente, the famous Latino superstar Gemma (the main character) meets on the plane on her way to the island.

For eighteen months I had the best time.

And then, suddenly, one day I wrote “The End”.

And felt utterly lost!

However, while I’d been writing the book, a carefully selected committee of friends had been reading it chapter by chapter. I knew from their reactions that the book worked because they always wanted to know what happened next. Better yet, they always wanted it NOW.

So I reached out to various agents in London (I live in Switzerland) and within a couple of weeks I had an offer from someone who represented many famous authors. She loved the book and wanted to meet me. I flew to London, returning home a few days later on a high. She sent me a contract, I signed. I had an agent!

Within a week she called. A big editor at Penguin loved it, was already talking about who would play Emilio in the film! Mark Wahlberg was mentioned, which didn’t sit right with me, but I wasn’t going to start saying, “hey there, hang on a minute…!”

And then, after loads of other Penguin people loving it, someone at the top said, “Sorry, no.”

All the editors in all the big publishing houses seemed to love it, and again, many of them spoke of movie rights, got excited, throwing out names of famous actors. Over and over my agent and I got all excited. The book kept going up through all the echelons of the reading committees. Time after time, the person right at the top turned it down.

My agent began submitting to America, to editors so famous even I’d heard of them. I began to receive feedback from these people pitching me as the next Jackie Collins (wait, what?), and my agent and I fizzed with anticipation.

Everyone loved it.

And yet.

Same same, but different. A hundred “almosts” ending in “no”.

My agent submitted to film companies. Sony Films kept it for ages. As did Miramax. And Working Title. I vividly remember arriving at a party and telling my friend that my book was at Miramax. Surreal!

Meanwhile, I was trying to write my second book. As I said at the beginning, I’m hyper-sensitive. The excitement and the stress of having to produce something as good, preferably even better, sucked the joy and playfulness right out of my writing. I had a wonderful story yet I couldn’t do it justice. I battled with that manuscript for two years, finally felt as though I might have something I could build on, sent it to my agent who read it and asked me to fly to London to see her.

I came out of her office in tears. I felt like such a failure. I felt like I’d failed her, failed myself, failed my family. I wasn’t a writer after all. I felt so ashamed.

I didn’t write for twenty years.

In retrospect, I should have gone back to her when I’d calmed down, when I no longer felt so broken. We could have talked. I had a base that could have been worked on, or I could have pivoted towards something else. Encouraging words could have been exchanged. It didn’t need to end the way it did. She even sent me an email telling me she felt bad, that maybe she’d come across too harshly, that she was there if I needed her.

But instead of being honest and telling her I felt utterly broken, that I needed a few of my feathers stroking so that I might manage to fluff myself out and dust myself off and get back in front of the screen, I told her it was fine, that I understood and that she was only doing her job. Stiff upper lip. It’s-not-you,-it’s-me. I’m the one who sucks.

I tried to write. My neck seized up. I developed nausea every time I sat in front of the screen.

So, I quit. I went back to my other passion: horses. I bought a horse and immersed myself in the dressage world. I spent six or seven hours a day at the stables instead of at my computer.

Yet that book (initially called "Mucho Caliente!”) continued to sit and wave at me from the the back of my mind. Everyone who’d read had enjoyed it. It gave people a good time.

Years passed. The E-publishing revolution happened, and a friend of mine in the US encouraged me to submit to a publisher who’d signed two of her books. At that point I just wanted the book out. I wanted to be able to hold it in my hands, look at it on my bookshelf, give it to people!

I hadn’t spoken to my agent in six years; but what reason would we have had to speak? I hadn’t written anything else and still felt ashamed for having let her down. I emailed her and asked to be released from my contract. She replied, told me she understood, and not to hesitate if I ever wrote something I felt might interest her.

I soon signed a publishing contract with an E-publisher, and “Mucho Caliente!” came out some months later. The book received a small number of stellar reviews, won an award for best book with one of the larger book blog review sites of the time, then sank without a trace.

Nevertheless, I felt like I’d achieved something. I’d google myself once in a while and see the title crop up. Once, I even found a brilliant review in the online edition of American Elle magazine.

These past five years, various health issues gradually forced me to stop riding. A catastrophic neck injury put me through hell, and I now have chronic neck and shoulder pain as well as an intestinal autoimmune disease brought on by all the pain medication I had to take. Giving up riding horses was hard, but not even being able to look after them hit even harder.  Chronic pain is scary and depressing; I get through it with the regular help of my therapist.

However, the silver lining shines bright. Because I’ve had to radically rebuild my life, I reconnected with my creative side, particularly with my love for writing. A few years before the pandemic, just before my body started to come undone, I’d asked my E-publisher to release me from my contract and reclaimed my rights to “Mucho Caliente!”.

As soon as I was well enough, I decided to republish it myself under a new title.

I spent a couple of months working on the book again, tweaking it, making it slightly more politically correct (how times have changed!). My daughter designed the cover, and I released it as JUST LIKE A MOVIE in June 2023. I’ve had lovely reviews, but as all writers know, the competition is fierce. I’m proud of the book, love the new cover, love the reactions I get from readers. What I love most is how the process has reignited the creative fire in me that I believed I’d lost forever.

I’m writing another novel and enjoying the process. I’ve had to learn how to use social media where I’ve met lots of lovely people. I’ve written multiple posts for my website. I’ve even started writing funny poetry!

Writing has finally become fun again. Yes, it’s hard work, but it’s fun hard work. Work I love.

And, as I mentioned, this morning I received the first few pages of the screenplay for JUST LIKE A MOVIE! They are brilliant! I’m beyond excited. My gratitude is off the charts!

I’m also not naïve. I know that most screenplays are never picked up by studios.

But it doesn’t matter. Very few people ever write a book. Few writers land an agent. Few writers persevere with something they wrote decades ago…

To be honest, there have been times when I’ve felt silly about persevering with this. Various people have made it clear that they don’t understand why I republished this book. They find it pointless and strange. I’m sensitive; it got to me.

But now, to have someone I’ve never met love this book so much that they’re writing the screenplay with…a famous actress I can’t name… in mind as the main character is crazy wonderful! And yes, she’d be absolutely perfect as Gemma!

As for Emilio Caliente, he will forever remain Ricky Martin in my mind. But Ricky, bless him, is no longer 29 years old, so chances are it wouldn’t work, unless we put Gemma in a Zimmer frame! I’m joking of course, but if this project gets off the ground, Ricky should at least have a cameo role in it, right?

I’m getting slightly ahead of myself… But I think I’m allowed to dream a little on a day like today.

I’m happy that I believed in this fun, effervescent book enough to give it a second chance. Because of my persistence, JUST LIKE A MOVIE is now being developed for film.

That in itself feels just like a movie!

 

RAINBOW

 

A prism of colours

For pots of gold.

Our house got picked,

As centerfold!

 

This house is magic,

I knew at once,

When I walked it,

It felt like home.

 

The vibes are quiet,

Grounded, kind,

With ghosts of horses,

Custodians.

 

The rainbow marked a special day,

Extraordinary news arrived my way.

I’m blessed already with all I have,

But now, who knows, there could be more!

 

SHOPPING DAY

No poetry today for me,

I went to town, a shopping spree.

With Annabel we hit the shops,

Browsed in Zara, tried quite a lot!

I bought a shirt, it’s cream, quite pretty,

And track pants too, useful, easy.

 

We went for lunch in Bon Genie,

It’s nice in there, albeit posey.

It’s where the posh ladies meet their friends,

Think Gossip Girl for older women!

They dress sport-chic, beige, greige, blue.

Their hair is coiffed, they’re tweaked and smooth.

 

We walked around, saw gorgeous things,

Who buys them I have no idea!

But it’s fun to look, to touch, and dream.

 

I love nice things, but most of the time,

I’m sat right here at my computer.

What’s the point of buying stuff,

That sits on hangers in the cupboard?

 

Oh, it seems I wrote a poem,

It’s not my best but what the heck!

THE BALLAD OF CALIENTE’S CHICKS

(A bit like The Canterbury Tales. But in Ibiza. With a superstar. And very goofy!)

Caliente’s Chicks, that’s who we are,

Emilio is our superstar.

We are obsessed, know all his songs,

Emilio Caliente we adore.

 

Emilio’s fan club grew and grew,

To join you promise to be true,

Spread far and wide the Caliente word,

This club’s not open to any old bird.

 

I’m Emily, I’m CEO,

The biggest fan across the globe.

(My real name’s actually Yvette

I’ve not been institutionalized yet!)

 

I had the fan club’s top-notch spies,

Trace Emilio to this isle.

Purple Banana, Ibiza,

A roof top terrace private fiesta!

 

A gaggle of Emilio’s most loyal Chicks,

Flew here especially for this gig.

We rented Vespas, pink and sparkly,

Added balloons, made it a party.

 

Out in the sticks, on a backroad,

We picked up three regular broads,

Gemma, Laura and Celeste,

Those girls were also headed there.

 

Bosoms on show, lips all festooned,

We caused a right hullaballoo.

Pulling up outside the ‘Nana!

Gemma got tense, I had to calm her.

 

Suddenly Celeste revealed a scoop,

Some news so wild I nearly pooped!

I took a breath, gasped “Well, I never!”

Emilio and Gemma, they’re together!

The bouncer opened the sparkly door,

We all rushed in, trilling “Emiiiilioooo!”

And headed to the rooftop bar,

Drank Banana Cocktails beneath the stars.

 

DJ Moses was such a twat,

His music taste was total crap!

He ignored me for a while,

Requesting Emilio’s salsa vibe.

 

Then suddenly like in a dream,

A picket fence of laser beams.

Jungle-type prints like henna tattoos,

Bounced off the walls, a bass line boomed.

 

And there he was, up on the stage,

The most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

“Fuego de Amor”, that famous tune,

Drove the crowd wild, set fire to the room.

 

His repertoire our star performed,

And all of us danced up a storm,

We had brought thongs, we always do,

To throw at him right on my cue.

 

Gemma took one, so did Celeste

(And Laura obviously chose the best!)

I gave the cue, we screamed and ran,

And hurled those knickers at our man.

 

I don’t know why, what a to-do!

Some random man out of the blue,

Grabbed Emilio’s Gemma by the arm.

His eyes were wild, she looked alarmed.

 

What happened next made headline news!

Emilio clearly wasn’t amused,

To defend the one he loved,

He jumped off stage and cuffed the thug!

 

“Hijo de puta,” Emilio hissed,

And knocked that mystery man for six!

Well goodness me, all hell broke loose,

At the Banana, up on the roof!

 

Emilio fled with lovely Gemma,

Caliente’s Chicks, we had to help,

We policed the crowd to let them through,

We knew exactly what to do.

 

While Emilio screamed for his car,

Protecting Gemma, God bless his heart,

We Chicks all ran to find the Vespas,

And rushed right back revving our engines!

 

 

Emilio he jumped on behind me,

I was so thrilled I nearly weed!

My mate Gladys, she took Gemma,

And we roared off all together.

 

Down Ibiza’s darkest roads we raced,

And made it safely to Celeste’s.

Emilio kissed us both goodbye,

Before disappearing into the night.

 

For as long as I shall live

I will cherish that late-night kiss,

The memory of him pushed up close,

His arms around me as we rode.

(To read the book from which this whacky tale was inspired click here)

 

LAURA’S REVENGE

My husband’s infidelity,

Brought out the crafty witch in me.

He left me for some younger twit,

With a taut tum and gorgeous tits.

He told me,” Laura, I must be true,

I met a girl, younger than you.

She does things you wouldn’t believe,

With the sexy tricks tucked up her sleeve!”

 

“You and me don’t have enough sex,

I’m moving on, end of subject.

I’ll have my lawyer draw up papers

For the divorce, talk to you later.”

 

He left me there, sipping Chablis,

Forty-years old, suddenly free.

I told myself, “Laura ma chère,

Revenge is sweet, Gianni beware!”

 

I’m an interior decorator,

So changed our flat’s minimalist flavour,

To something vulgar, gaudy, crass.

Oh mon Dieu, I had a blast!

 

I glued a duck-poo green vile carpet,

To the gorgeous antique parquet!

With those swirls of orange in it,

It made you feel a little seasick.

 

With the bathroom I got bold,

The heirloom bath and sink I sold.

Replaced them with orange crap,

Dirt cheap from Conforama!

 

I had all our lovely furniture,

Stored in a massive container.

A plastic couch I went and bought,

In black and gold, the very worst!

 

And wait, the bed, so fantastique!

You’ve never seen something so kitsch!

With zebra sheets in polyester,

That bed is certain to impress her!

 

The static electricity will zap,

Any writhing in the sack.

The built-in radio played shortwave,

The crackle itself was “le bouquet”!

 

I sold all the crockery,

Replaced it with pink melamine.

The fireplace ledge, just wait for this!

I covered with synthetic lace!

 

Black velvet posters in DayGlo,

Adorned the walls of the palazzo.

Blue porcelain horses, a golden clock,

I left a note, he’d have a shock.

 

And then I packed my Vuitton cases,

Rode a cab to the Six Senses.

I’m so proud of this great job,

I did for Gianni and his salope!

 

Now I’m here in Ibiza,

With my friends Celeste and Gemma.

This summer’s about to get très juicy,

So grab the book Just Like A Movie!

 

ACUPUNCTURE

A POEM ABOUT NEEDLES!

There’s something strange just lying there

With needles planted everywhere.

The ceiling is all I can see,

Cuz if I move I’ll feel a zing.

 

I’m not sure where they all are placed,

They’re on my tummy and on my face,

They’re down my neck and in my feet,

In my ankles and in my knees.

 

What they do I can’t be sure,

Chinese medicine is quite obscure.

I started coming years ago,

Hoping Dr Dong could fix my woes.

 

I couldn’t move my neck at all,

And if I did I’d get a shock,

A surge of electricity

Would make me scream in agony.

 

Dr Dong said ,“Don’t you worry,

“You will be fine, just trust in me.

“You don’t need physio, I swear,

Believe in Chinese savoir-faire.”

 

At that point I was desperate,

My life was boring, I felt stuck.

My days were spent flat on my back,

With audiobooks, panic attacks.

 

Three times a week for many months

I visited with Dr. Dong.

I lay face down for my treatments,

I felt quite like a pincushion.

 

Eventually the pain subsided,

The pickaxe in my back a dagger,

A penknife and a needle next,

The human body’s so complex.

 

Dong used lots of variations,

Needles with electric currents!

Cupping worked quite well with me,

The noise it makes sounds so silly!

 

My pain’s not gone, I don’t know whether,

It ever will, but never say never.

I went today for my tummy,

For my colitis actually.

 

Two years ago, back when it started,

Dr Dong had worked his magic.

My swollen knee he treated too,

I swear this ageing thing so screwed!

 

And now you know about my time,

This morning as a porcupine!

I’ll stop this rhyme, I must now go,

Work on my book! See you tomorrow!

 

A HORSE CALLED QRAC

 I used to have a horse called Qrac,

If you kissed him, he’d kiss you back.

He’d pucker up, roll back his lips

His smooch it was the very best.

 

I saw him on the Internet,

Being ridden in some sort of test,

A Portuguese, Lusitano.

That set my body all aglow.

 

Thick mane, long tail, completely black,

With almond eyes and a short back.

I watched his video hundreds of times,

But never thought he could be mine.

 

Until one day with Marie-V,

A random horse we went to see.

Some Portuguese, we didn’t know,

That much about him, we just drove.

 

A little stable in Provence,

Lines of Cremelos with pink eyes,

And then suddenly at the back, 

A gorgeous horse, completely black!

 

My heart stood still, was black beauty,

The one from my computer screen?

“What is his name? I think I know…”

“His name is Qrac, Qrac de la Font.”

 

Of all the horses all over France!

How could it be, what sort of chance

To find the one I’d seen online

Certain he never could be mine?

 

To Switzerland I brought him back,

And started training this young chap.

It wasn’t easy, he was sharp,

He’d spin and buck and sometimes rear.

 

I taught that horse so many things,

And dressed him up in lots of bling.

Swarovski diamonds for Qracipoo

On numnahs, bandages, browbands too.

 

Qrac’s favourite thing wasn’t dressage,

What he loved best was a massage.

Under warm lights, with a machine

Called Equissage, his dopamine.

 

We went to shows, they weren’t his thing,

(Or maybe it was actually me?)

Our scores were crap, we’d both get scared,

I don’t know why, it was absurd.

 

We placed just once, in Cluny, France,

Came second in medium advanced.

We did a freestyle, made a mess,

To a song by Robbie Williams!

 

I never cared that much for shows,

I only really liked the clothes!

The black jacket, the jodhpurs white,

The shiny boots and clean white gloves.

 

I’d rather practise moves at home,

Ride for fun and take lessons.

Or go on horsey holidays,

With my friend Joelle, to Saint Tropez!

 

We’d stay a week, have crazy times,

With Qracipoo and Umbrella,

We called ourselves the Blingadas,

And drank plenty of champagne!

 

We smuggled wine, white and rosé

Under smelly numnahs, how osé!

The customs men they were hoodwinked,

They didn’t want to sniff that stink!

 

 It’s hard to think about those days,

Without fat teardrops in my eyes.

A little lump forms in my throat…

Horses are so hard to let go.

WHOOSH

Whoosh: a quick poem on a wet day

 

Wonderful whoosh,

A whoosh of wind,

Whirling wickedly, whistling, wild.

 

Walls of water,

Like waterfalls.

Wailing gusts, a ghostly noise.

 

It’s wild outside!

Stay in, stay dry,

And watch the dark grey clouds whoosh by.

 

This wild wet day is welcome here,

We’ve had no rain

These past two years.

We need more wild wet whooshy days,

To fill the reservoirs

All over Spain.