Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 49

FUNNY TUMMY

 

My auto-immune is such a pain,

It takes the fun out of my days.

It comes and goes, plays nasty tricks,

And makes my tummy really sick.

I’m fine a while and then I’m not,

It’s hard to plan with what I’ve got.

Dinners with friends are a headache,

Unless they make me chips and steak.

 

Dairy, gluten aren’t for me,

Not even pasta gluten free!

It makes me bloat, and feel like crap,

I don’t know why but it’s like that.

 

So many things are cooked with butter,

Or hid within stuff, undercover.

Parmesan I never know,

Sometimes it’s fine, sometimes it’s not.

  

Banana bread with crushed almonds,

Coconut oil and cinnamon,

I’ve made it oh so many times,

The quantities stick in my mind.

 

This disease crept up on me,

From taking anti-inflammatories,

For other things that gave me pain,

That still hasn’t gone away.

 

The doctors said, “Just take those pills,

Just knock them down and go away!

We don’t know what is wrong with you,

Our MRIs’, they tell the truth!”

 

“There’s nothing there that shows a problem,

Your injury should be forgotten.”

But still it hurts, I can’t do stuff,

I used to love so very much.

 

Now even food is quite a challenge,

And it’s quite hard to find a balance.

Most restaurants drive me insane,

(Although they’re pretty good in Spain).

  

As I write, I’m in a flare,

So, I really must take care.

My stay in Spain I must cut short,

(I’d hate to cortisone resort).

 

Anyway, I will be fine,

I’ll sort it out, it just takes time.

There are worse things, I know for sure,

Although my tummy’s rather sore.

 

ALL THE PRETTY THINGS

My sisters and I at my daughter’s wedding last year! We all love fashion!

 

Pretty girls in magazines,

Gorgeous dresses, shoes and jeans,

All those new things in the shops,

Luring me from my laptop.

 

If I only just had that dress,

My head wouldn’t be such a mess,

Those jeans would give my bum a lift,

They’re soft and stretchy, a perfect fit.

 

Have you seen those shoes right there?

Which colour do you most prefer?

I like the blue, also the white,

They’re nice and flat to my delight.

 

Shall I get red, what do you think?

The beige ones go with everything.

Oh what the f***, I’ll get them all!

Most shoes for me are much too small.

 

I need a bag, a crossover,

Nowadays that’s the style I wear,

My shoulder hurts with bigger bags,

Those heavy ones are such a drag.

 

And now I’ve spent far too much cash!

Shit! I’ve not even been to BA&SH!

Should I nip in, is it too late?

Or is it best to not tempt fate?

 

Those boho dresses I really like,

They do them well, they’re just my style.

Oh, never mind, I should refrain,

My passion for fashion is such a drain.

 

I’ll close my eyes so I won’t see,

Zara, Anthropologie,

I’ll just go home, sit in my chair,

I’ve many clothes I never wear.

 

I don’t need more, yet every year,

I can’t resist those lovely treats.

Tell me now, are you are like me?

Do you love a shopping spree?

 

A POEM FOR ROLAND TONG: DRESSAGE TRAINER EXTRAORDINAIRE

Roland with Leo

Roland is my gorgeous friend,

A dressage trainer extraordinaire.

I met him years and years ago,

At Olympia in the champagne bar.

 

A little shy he seemed at first,

But soon relaxed, we had a chat.

With Josephine we drank some bubbly,

And both decided he was lovely.

 

We need a trainer in Geneva,

Will you come, please Roland, teach us?

Our half-passes are pretty crap,

Our piaffe passage is out of whack.

 

Roland gave our request some thought,

And flew over quite late in March.

He told us all we had no bend,

In pirouettes or anything.

 

He said “Sybille, if your mare can trot like that,

You’d best not show that other crap!”

As for me, my Qracipoo,

Had got to learn to be more through.

 

He made me sweat, he made me trot,

He made my bum feel very hot!

Roland’s French was non-existent,

We taught him some, we were persistent.

 

“Caresse” means pat, he learnt to say,

And used it every single day.

Shoulder in: épaule en dedans”,

And really good is “vachement bien”.

 

Roland found me Dominic,

My lovely Hanoverian.

My chestnut love, he’s just the bomb!

I did Saint George with gorgeous Dom!

Dominic and me

 

Celine and Dee, a lovely pair,

With Roland go so beautifully,

I love to watch Miss Dee improve,

That barefoot mare can really move!

I wish I still could ride, you know,

I miss the horses, the company.

Thanks to you I learnt so much,

Thank you, Roland, so very much.

Céline and Dylan, Roland, Alenka, me!

 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROLAND!!!

Lots of love,

Cesca XXXX

 

 For more fun reading: Just Like A Movie and my other poems and blog posts on here!

CATS AND DOGS

Leo and Tom

 

My husband’s not that big on dogs,

He thinks their cute, but he’s not that fussed.

I’ve almost always had a dog,

The first was Shadow,

Then came Josh.

 

Shadow didn’t live that long,

He got run over, how I cried.

Josh came later, we had a house,

A brown Dalmatian, oh so randy!

He used to wander, quite the dandy.

 

Maverick, black Labrador,

A gentle giant,

Who loved my mother.

As a pup he loved to chew,

The kitchen cupboards, lots of shoes!

 

Barney was a dog I bought,

A Bearded Collie, brown and white.

I told my husband a big lie,

I’d get a female, small and smooth,

That didn’t shed around the rooms!

 

I went to see those Bearded pups,

With my friend Ian who loved all dogs.

We came home with a hairy male,

My husband loved him just the same!

 

Barney was a sweetie pie,

He barked a lot, was very shy.

He loved to roll in smelly poos,

And smelt disgusting, I tell you!

He wasn’t keen on being washed,

And hated going in the bath.

 

Soon I found a little Simba,

A Lhassa Apso, my little recue.

His jaw was wonky, his back was bad,

He snapped at strangers out on walks!

He once fell through a frozen pond,

I jumped in after him fully dressed.

And pulled him out, an icy dog,

Hot water bottles warmed him up.

He never left my side from then,

His Wonderwoman - that was me!

 

My friend Zoe had a litter,

Of Yorkshire Terriers one sunny Easter.

We went over for afternoon tea,

Home we came with Tom, that’s three!

Tom was such a lovely dog,

He’d smile at us and said “Hello!”

 

When Barney died (he had a stroke),

We missed that lovely shaggy bloke.

Lovely Leo was the next,

Cavalier King Charles, simply the best.

A lazy cuddler, not too smart,

He died too soon and broke my heart.

 

I haven’t had another dog,

Badu moved in,

Our little cat.

She’s white and gorgeous, quite a character,

Touch her bum and she will bite ya!

She belonged to our next-door neighbour,

But my son Greg was more her flavour.

 

Now tell me all about your pets,

Cats, dogs, horses, birds or donkeys!

Leave a comment, make me happy!

 

VIVA LA MUSICA!

VIVA LA MUSICA: A quick Monday morning poem

  

I don’t get Jazz, I really don’t,

My ears don’t work with those weird notes,

I struggle hard to find the tunes

That people love to listen to.

 

My husband loves his jazz, you see,

He goes to concerts without me.

I went with him a couple of time,

And got a migraine before nine.

 

Our tastes in music much differ,

He plays his stuff when I’m not there.

I prefer pop, The Eagles, Sting,

Ricky Martin’s joyous zing!

 

I’d like to see John Mayer too,

I love his music, how about you?

I’ve seen U2, The Police, Blondie,

Coldplay, Eurythmics, Bryan Ferry.

 

Now tell me what music you like?

Taylor Swift or Harry Styles?

Does Michael Buble make you smile?

Or make you want to run a mile?

 

I listen to chilled stuff when I write,

A soothing playlist on Spotify

Called Music for Anxiety

I seems to work quite well for me!

THE BIG BOOB

(My outfit wasn’t quite as sexy as this one, but you get the idea)

Many years ago, when I was very young, very shy, and newly married, my husband and I were invited to the very snazzy launch of a brand-new line of jewlery belonging to a big luxury goods group. My husband had recently started working in the legal department of this group, and my sole knowledge of what to expect at this sort of event came from the pages of magazines like Tatler.

Just looking at the fancy invitation we’d received weeks in advance sent my adrenaline levels orbiting outer space, initially just accompanied by the usual helium-squeals of “OMG I have nothing to wear.” For once, my wardrobe concern was legit, since how often do 27-year-olds like me get invited to parties where there will be movie stars and famous singers and models, and all kinds of other glitzy human beings?

So, one Saturday afternoon, my mama and I went into Geneva on an outfit hunt. I tried all sorts of beautiful things, and finally settled for a flared Marilyn-red silk skirt with a semi-stiff petticoat that ended just above the knee, with a matching bustier. The look felt young, and a little bit sexy, with pin-up vibes that somehow managed to steer clear of Tex Avery.

On the big night, I was loaned a set of chunky gold jewelry from the new collection. I had my hair professionally done in a high ponytail, and wore gold, high, strappy sandals, because I could still walk in heels back then.

I did discreet makeup and finished the look off with a red lip. I felt rather gorgeous. My husband thought I looked fabulous. Huzzah!

I’ve always found that the fun part  of most parties is the anticipation, the ceremonial of getting ready. I love the search for the perfect outfit, whether it’s in my wardrobe or at the shops. I enjoy the pre-party pampering, the hair and makeup.

Eventually though, you’ve got to step out into the light. You’ve got to smile, and - particularly at professional affairs - you have to come up with vanilla-flavoured small talk, and try to remember names, and not fall over, or spill something down your front, or pick at a piece of pickle stuck in your teeth. You’ve got to remember whether your bread roll is the one on the left or on the right, which knife and fork to use, and not have one drink too many.

I felt like I needed training wheels. An airbag. A teleprompter. A hand to hold.

When we arrived at the event I immediately wanted to turn around, go home, put my pjs on and have poached eggs on toast. I was out of my league. The glamour was off the charts for a newbie like me. I didn’t feel underdressed, I just felt like the biggest imposter ever to impost anywhere.

I recognized Ursula Andress (the Swiss James Bond girl who starred in Dr. No with Sean Connery), Sasha Distel (your granny/great-granny’s crush), and Petula Clark (most famous for her mega hit “Downtown”)and… and….I don’t remember!!! I just remember that the tent – I mean the marquee – was crawling with VIPs, that the sit-down dinner took place at huge oval tables, that my husband was sitting opposite me but miles away, and that his boss was sitting to my right. Also, my strappy sandals were already biting my feet.

My husband’s boss was a very nice, extremely chatty man who did a great job at getting me to relax. In fact, just before dessert, I’d let my guard down so much that when I suddenly needed to go to the bathroom, but had no idea where to find, I asked him. And he told me. And then it dawned on me that to get there I’d have to coax my strappy sandals to take me right across the marquee via a maze of tables surrounded by celebrities and chi-chi people all having a merry old time. At that moment, the task felt akin to being handed a microphone, and asked to climb on stage and sing Lady Marmelade.

So…

I turned to my new aquaintance and asked him to come with me. I might even have raised my right shoulder a smidgeon, lightly caressed my solar plexus, batted my eyelashes, and ended my question by cooing, “please?” It’s entirely possible.

 Mega teleprompter malfunction.

Big boob.

I vividly remember the slight twitch of his mustaches as he momentarily potentially wondered whether he might be being propositioned, then immediately realized that I was just a little girl who needed the loo. So, this gallant gentleman folded his napkin, stood up, helped me out of my chair, and escorted me through Tinseltent and all the way to the ladies. There, he waited patiently for me to reapply my red lipstick, before escorting me back to our table. To this day I hate to imagine what his wife thought. As for my husband, sitting next to her, he’d turned as white as the tablecloth, certain that on Monday morning he’d be handed a carboard box and told to clear his desk.

By then, of course, I’d realized my faux-pas, and proceeded to dig myself deeper and deeper into my moronic mausoleum by repeatedly apologizing to my mustachioed knight in black tie, who wasn’t in the least bit put out and seemed to find me rather entertaining. So much so that we ended the evening on a first name basis, switching to the familiar French pronoun “tu” instead of the formal “vous”, something my husband never managed to do in close to three decades (Yay! No Monday morning cardboard box!).

Looking back, I realize the evening served as the perfect introduction to the singular world of glitzy professional events, with my husband’s boss metaphorically holding my hand throughout the dinner. I got lucky, because I went on to attend many other events like this during my husband’s career and cannot remember another high-ranked executive being quite so congenial.

Over the years, I learned to read my dinner companions and to dose my spontaneity with an adequate amount of restraint. But no other official dinner has remained as vivid in my memory as that evening under the star-packed marquee, chaperoned by that kind, entertaining and compassionate gentleman.

Have you ever made any major gaffe’s you still cringe over? Please tell me I’m not alone! 

SUNBLESSED

What day are we going?

How many more sleeps?

How long will it take us?

To drive all that way?

 

I love our red bunkbeds,

That teeny old house,

Getting washed in the fountain,

The bunnies, “my man”.

 

The vegetable garden,

That squeaky old gate.

We drive to the beach and stay there all day,

Eat Bomboloni, panini, Coco-Bello, ice-cream.

 

We don’t wear much suncream,

We often go red!

“You’ll be brown by tomorrow,”

My mama always says.

 

My sister is younger but bolder than me,

She often goes missing, taking off down the beach.

She flops down with strangers, a real chatterbox,

My parents don’t worry, she’s never too far.

 

We jump in the waves,

Find hundreds of shells,

(There were plenty in those days,

We took hundreds home.)

 

We play games of Boccie, Clack-Clack and ping pong,

We pester for pinball up the beach at the bar.

We drink Coca Cola, Italian lemonade,

Eat orange ice-lollies that leave stains on our tongues.

 

Prosciutto, mortadella, salami, some crisps,

Those Italian sandwiches were always the best.

Watermelon and peaches, nectarines and grapes.

Spaghetti and pizza, tomatoes, ice-cream.

 

My mama’s great figure’s the talk of the beach,

How does she keep it after having three kids?

The answer is simple: she never sits down,

She’s cooking and cleaning and ironing non-stop!

 

She reads us long stories,

Sings songs to us too,

She’s gorgeous and giggly,

With incredible legs!

 

My Papa goes swimming,

He wears tight little trunks,

The ladies all watch him,

He’s built like a God!

 

He builds huge sandcastles,

Racing tracks in wet sand.

Plays ball with my brother,

For hours at a time.

 

We go to Carrara,

Drive up windy roads,

Visit white marble mountains loved by Michaelangelo.

We visit the quarries, collect little white stones,

Buy statuettes of David, the Madonna, Pietà.

 

We went back to that place,

For many a year,

My Nana came with us quite often it seems.

My Mama’s friend Mary, she often came too.

They’d giggle together, talk of days back at school.

  

The vine covered pathway leading to the front door.

No bathroom, no toilet, an outhouse downstairs.

We washed in the sink or the fountain outside,

The water was freezing but nobody cared.

 

The electric was wonky, we lit candles at night,

Read stories, played hopscotch, sang songs in the car.

My brother’s blonde hair bleached bright white in the sun,

My sister tanned dark, while I went golden.

  

Those wonderful memories,

Polaroids in my head,

Sandals and sunshine,

The Lido, the waves.

 

That funny old house,

On the outskirts of town,

In Marina di Carrara,

With a view on the trains.

 

NB: I have two wonderful sisters, but there is almost 14 years difference between my youngest sister and me, so (if my memory is correct) she never experienced summer holidays in that funny old house in Marina di Carrara.

THE TROUBLE WITH SUITCASES: THE ART OF NOT TRAVELLING LIGHT

The Trouble With Suitcases: A quick poem written before my flight this morning

 

Open suitcase on the bed,

Look in cupboard, scratch my head.

Let’s be sensible, don’t go mad,

You know you’re always really bad.

 

I like these jeans,

And those ones too,

Light ones, dark ones,

White, pale blue.

 

Tee-shirts?

Wait, I’ve loads in Spain,

Just this pink one,

It’s my fave.

 

Makeup, lotions, serums, creams.

Shampoo, conditioner and sunscreen.

Tweezers, razor, Epilady.

Hairbrush, comb, my best scrunchies.

 

My Dyson dryer for my hair,

Two books,

Two mags,

And all my meds.

 

Knickers, bralettes,

Jewelry.

Socks and shoes,

A bikini.

 

Biscuits, Mayo,

Laekerli.

Wool for crochet?

Hey, maybe!

 

How much does this suitcase weigh?

No idea, Just wait and see.

 

Up at dawn,

A good night’s sleep

Hardcore tablet did the trick

 

Here’s the airport,

Kiss goodbye,

Thank you Snooba,

See you soon.

 

Check in robot weighs my bag,

Says the kilos are really bad!

I have to pay three kilos more,

Eye roll, credit card, here we go.

 

Never mind,

It’s no big deal.

Now let’s pass security.

Bag got side-lined,

What the f***?

False alarm says a man in black.

 

Safely through,

Now loads of time.

Buy a Swatch in

Duty free!

 

Boarding soon,

It’s time to go.

Barcelona here I come!

 

 

SLEEP

My Papa in the photo! He can sleep anywhere, at anytime!!

SLEEP: a poem about that elusive little s***

 

What do you think you’re doing?

I can’t read anymore,

My eyes are dry and itchy,

My back is really sore.

 

I’ve done the meditations,

I ate hours ago,

I’ve not watched television,

I had a bath instead.

 

My bed is big and cosy,

The window’s open wide,

The temperature is perfect,

I’m even my own!

 

I’ve tried the gentle sleep aids

The gummies, CBD,

I’ve taken melatonin,

Had fancy herbal teas.

 

Sleep you’re being naughty,

I’ve had it with your tricks,

Tonight I’m going hardcore

You elusive little shit!

 

There, you see that’s better!

A perfect snory night

I’m fresh, relaxed and happy,

I’ll meet you here tonight.

 

GORGEOUS

GORGEOUS

 

The tiniest boy,

With inky black hair,

And sea-blue eyes,

The nurses swooned.

 

Your golden skin,

That gorgeous smile,

Your little tummy,

Those perfect toes.

 

Montessori,

Still so small.

Mama don’t you leave me,

Please don’t go.

 

Bedtime stories in your bed.

Quack song, Your Song, Alouette.

Silly lyrics, giggles in the dark,

One more, Mama, one more song.

 

Cuddles, kisses,

Tantrums too.

Hot wheels, Lego,

Tots TV.

 

Dressed as Zorro,

Halloween,

The prince of Caribana,

Your first school dance.

 

Skiing lessons,

Football team,

Video wizard,

Skateboard dreams.

 

My gorgeous Snooba,

Grown-up now.

Kind, clever, generous,

I love you.