Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 53

HOLA!

This is very silly, but it’s fun to be silly sometimes, so here goes! This morning, on Instagram, there was a very cute little video of Ricky Martin sitting on the stage, looking at his phone, totally minding his own business. Someone approached him from in front, filming him, and Ricky looked up, smiled and said “Hola”. That’s all it was. But it was very cute, and it’s you’re a sucker for Ricky like I am that’s all it took for me to get crazystupidlycreative and go off and make my own little “Hola” video through the roof window of my office. And with all the terrible things that are happening in the world right now, it felt nice to just be childish and silly. I hope it makes you giggle!

Mystic Biscuits

You know that lovely heart-vibrating feeling you get when you go somewhere and feel a sense of belonging, a sense of connection, of deep resonance? I always get that feeling when I arrive in Spain. I’ll literally get off the plane, or out of the car, and feel the twitch of a smile.

Elsewhere, I might get it when I see something beautiful, or when I’m alone, sitting quietly with my thoughts, and a warm tingling floods my body, like a massive wave of clarity and wonder. I might get a few tears, or goosebumps, or butterflies, or feel thoroughly warm and fuzzy. There’s a sudden calm, a connection, a bliss, a wholeness, a glimpse into pure happiness, into what really matters. We all tend to throw the word “awesome” all over the place these days, but few things really are truly awesome, at least in the sense that I understand it.

I felt this way on Saturday, here in Switzerland, just sitting outside in the sunshine on what must be the most comfortable reclining chair in the world, blissing out over the simple beauty of my garden, watching the birds, watching my cat sitting in the grass like the regal assassin she is, watching the planes in the distance prepare for landing at Geneva airport, and wondering where they were coming from, and what their passengers had been doing, or would be doing. And then my phone beeped with a message from my daughter recommending a podcast she’d just listened to, so I went to find my earbuds and listened, my mind expanding with wonder and excitement and gratitude over Dr Joe Dispenza’s conversation with Steven Bartlett. It was the perfect podcast at the perfect moment. Synchronicity.

I’ve noticed that among people of my generation, many eyebrows still take the elevator to the top floor, their eyes looping the loop or glazing over at the mention of mindset and mindfulness, at the notion that we might practice controlling our thoughts to create positive changes in our lives. I’ve always been interested in mindfulness to a certain extent, but it was many years ago, when I first started going to Ibiza, that I felt I’d found kindred spirits. Sure, there can be far too much overindulgence in all kinds of weird and wonderful mystic biscuits over there, and I’m not even referring to the drug scene that (sadly) springs to mind whenever you mention Ibiza. The mystic biscuits I’m talking about, the ones I’ve always enjoyed, are inspiring, congenial, benevolent. They can be heart-warming group meditations with friends, or spontaneous salsa dancing at a beach bar, or floppy moments with girlfriends on a gorgeous beach, a swim in the sea, or a long walk in the hills, or maybe even a visit to a luminous psychic who lives in the hills in the middle of nowhere with no electricity or running water, and yet has one of the most beautiful gardens I’ve ever seen. These are just examples of special times that have stayed with me throughout my life. Some have become practically canonized; they’re now beautiful, faded photographs of idyllic moments in my mind. When life feels exhausting, such special memories offer a reminder to take a breath and reset. They are both uplifting and grounding at same time, offerings of gratitude and fuel for hope.

 

Over the past few years, I’ve suffered from chronic pain, and I’ve noticed that – to a certain extent – if I can distract my thoughts from the pain and focus them elsewhere, the pain goes away. Or, if I focus on sending cooling, healing breaths to an area of my body currently on fire, the area will cool and I’ll feel better. Of course, it’s not as simple as that; if it was I’d have bottled my cooling, healing breaths ages ago and be dishing them out willy-nilly to fellow-sufferers all over the world. Sometimes the only thing I can do is take a painkiller, stick on an anti-inflammatory patch, and have an early night. But when it works – if even for a short while - it’s fascinating, and I’m excited to further investigate the superpowers that we have but don’t make use of.

 Which leads me to manifesting.

My daughter Olivia is a massive believer in both mindset and manifesting. She got married in a beautiful, wildflower-edged field overlooking the estuary at Helford Passage in Cornwall in early September, and for a whole year we were all very concerned about what might happen if the weather misbehaved. Sure, there was a marquee, and it would have been fine, and probably would even have been quite fun in a jolly-hockey-sticks sort of way had it poured with rain. But it certainly wouldn’t have been the breath-taking, solar plexus grabbing, awe-inspiring romantic event that blissed everyone out the minute they arrived at the venue. Olivia literally spent more than an entire year manifesting for September 9, 2023, to be a beautiful, sunny, hot day. And the universe went above and beyond, delivering Britain’s hottest day of the year. “Oh, dear,” she giggled, fanning herself with her veil. “I think I over-manifested!”

 Believe what you will. Was it luck? And if it was, does it matter? We feel so powerless in a world filled with cynicism and pain and ugliness and despair, so what’s the harm in believing that we have the power to change things for the better through breathwork and positive thinking?

 What fills you with joy? Do you have a special place? Do you believe in manifesting, in the power of mind-set? I’d love to know.

On Perseverance

Reblurbing the Blurb

(Bear with me, just for the sake of this article!)

Just Like a Movie is a romantic comedy set in summer 2000. It tells the story of recently divorced Gemma who is moving to Ibiza to build herself a life more aligned with the woman she wants to be. Financial independence is paramount to Gemma, who turned down her divorce settlement so that she would have to stand on her own two feet, thus rebuilding her self-confidence after years of being put-down by her cheating husband. She loves Ibiza, having often spent time there with her best friend Celeste who moved to the island years ago, so the plan is to move in with Celeste while finding her financial footing. Gemma feels connected to Ibiza’s bohemian vibe, and her creative talents suggest she will have no problem in supporting herself there. She’s all psyched up and ready to DO THIS!

However, on the flight to Ibiza she finds herself sitting next to her long-time idol, Spanish pop sensation Emilio Caliente. Gemma and Emilio exchange pleasantries during the flight, then accidentally walk off with each other’s carry-on bags. So, they have to meet again…

Will this encounter with Emilio scupper Gemma’s big personal plans? And can she really wish upon a superstar without risking a broken heart?

*****************************

Maybe you already know what the story is about. Nevertheless, I wanted to add a slightly more fleshed out version. Just because.

Anyway…

I wrote Just Like a Movie at a difficult time of my life. To cope with all the heavy stuff that was happening around me, I’d slip on my hot pink, high heeled mules (I actually really did this a couple of times! Somewhere, there’s a photo of me wearing them at my desk!) and retreat into my office where there was a magic portal. I’d put on a Café del Mar CD, turn on the computer and escape to Ibiza to have fun with Gemma and her wonderful girlfriends, joining them on all kinds of crazy, hilarious adventures. I based the character of Emilio Caliente on my own pop idol, Ricky Martin. There was a poster of Ricky on the wall above my desk, so inspiration came relatively easily! Day after day, magic happened. The writing was joyful, playful. It simply flowed.

 Every evening, after I’d finished writing, I’d send my new chapter to a few carefully selected girlfriends who could never wait to know what happened next. The heady combination of knowing that my friends wanted more, and the thrill of my imaginary escapades spurred me towards a romantic, goosebump-inducing finishing line that left me feeling both elated and depressed. Elated because I’d written a book that people clearly loved, and depressed because I’d written The End and all those wonderful characters had suddenly left the building, and what was I going to do without them?

 The journey to publishing the book has been long and bumpy. Initially, my confidence soared because it looked like very cool things were going to happen, and I was full of excitement for my second book. But when everything fell apart, a specific incident left me so traumatized that, for years, I couldn’t even sit in front of the computer without feeling sick. I switched tracks, and Just Like a Movie was eventually published by an e-pub in America under its initial title, Mucho Caliente. However, the fit was never ideal as the company specialized in erotica, and while my book contains a little spice, it is definitely not erotica!

 I eventually asked for my rights back, intending to quickly seek an alternative route to publication, but a series of health issues forced me to shelve those plans for four years. Exhausted, I was very close to giving up altogether, but Gemma, Emilio and co seemed to keep on jumping up and down, clamouring to be given another chance at making readers laugh and smile, at making them feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

 To keep the pressure on myself at levels I can deal with, after spending many months slowly re-editing the manuscript, I chose to publish via the indie route. Going forward, I want to be able to dial the pressure up or down depending on the state of my body and mind. I want to enjoy the process of talking about this book, just as much as I want to enjoy working on another one at my own pace.

The response from new readers has been lovely. The feedback and reviews are excellent, proving that the themes explored in the book resonate with readers of all ages just as they did twenty years ago, which shouldn’t amaze me as much as it does, but there you have it. I’m proud I persevered, and I truly hope you enjoy reading Just Like a Movie as much as I enjoyed writing it all those years ago, with gorgeous Ricky Martin gazing down at me from the wall above my desk.

Will you let me know?

The Cornish Loo Roll Crisis

My husband and I were in Cornwall last week where we’d rented a gorgeous little fisherman’s cottage in Helford Passage, right on the waterfront. The setting was truly idyllic, the sort of place you tend to see in romantic comedies, with people swimming, and children splashing, and scruffy dogs playing, and little fishing boats bobbing up and down, while majestic sailing boats glide up and down the estuary. There was a picture-perfect pub serving hearty food, and the weather was on its absolute best behaviour for the entire week, too.

 

The cottage had three bedrooms and was fully equipped, with a lovely welcome basket filled with delicious biscuits, Cornish tea and coffee, toffees, a nice bottle of wine, and cheese-flavoured crackers. There were dish-washing tablets, as well as basic cleaning products. What the rental agency had forgotten to include, however, was a couple of spare rolls of toilet paper.

 

This wouldn’t have been a problem if we’d had time to drive to the closest village, find a shop and stock up on more basics than the ones we’d brought with us. But we’d only been able to move into the cottage at four o’clock on Friday afternoon, and we had to be in Falmouth, about half an hour away, by six for my daughter and her husband’s pre-wedding reception. And we didn’t notice the absence of spare loo rolls until the following morning, which was the day of the wedding!

 Yikes!

 There were two ladies staying at the cottage next door who had noticed our well-dressed comings and goings, and with whom I’d exchanged a few excited words about the celebrations.

When I realised on Saturday morning that any big business was looking a little risky, I decided to see if our friendly neighbours might have a couple of loo rolls to spare. As luck had it, they’d just made a big Waitrose order and had accidentally ordered two packets of Andrex’s softest instead of just one, so we were more than welcome to take the extra. I offered to pay them back once I got some cash, but they insisted there no need, which was awfully kind.

I’d noticed they were both spending a lot of time reading in the sunshine on their little terrace overlooking the sea, and since I had a copy of “Just Like a Movie” with me, I went to get it and offered it to them. They graciously accepted, and over the next three days I couldn’t help noticing that, whenever I walked by, the younger lady (who turned out to be the other lady’s niece) couldn’t seem to put it down. I’d never seen a stranger reading my book before, and although I didn’t camp out on our terrace and stare at her because that would have been beyond wrong, I kept seeing her smile, or giggle a little, which felt so incredibly satisfying. It made me so happy to see someone enjoying it, especially as judging from how many pages she’d read, I could more or less guess what was happening in the story.

On the morning of the fourth day, we were all on our way out when I saw the young lady packing up her things, getting ready to go home. She told me that she’d absolutely loved Just Like a Movie and was really sad to have finished it. “I feel like I’ve lost all my friends!” she said, earnestly. “Are you going to write another one? Oh, please, you have to! I need to know what happens next! All those lovely characters can’t just be gone forever!”

I had goosebumps, literally, because that’s exactly how I felt when I finished writing the book. I’ve often wondered whether I should attempt to write a sequel, and quite a few people have encouraged me to do so, but I’ve always felt torn, because so many sequels don’t live up to the original story. But then again, so many of them do. So, what am I waiting for?

The truth is that there’s a massive element of fear holding me back. Fear has had a hold on my writing for a long time and is something I’m gradually trying to work through.

However, I’ve just had an idea.

Maybe my next romantic comedy should be set in a waterfront cottage in Cornwall, with a cute meet involving toilet paper. I could call it “The Cornish Loo Roll Crisis”! Hmmm! Now we’re talking!

 What do you reckon?

How I Learnt Spanish with Ricky Martin

Have you ever had a massive crush on a pop star? A crush on a scale so hilarious that your friends make fun of you, your siblings doubt your sanity, and you mother frets that your degree of obsession might upset your husband? A crush so intense you’ve caught yourself gushing inappropriately to people you barely know?

Like, you’re in your late thirties and have posters on your office wall?

 Come on, don’t be shy. I know I’m not alone.

 Ok, I’ll go first.

In the late 1990s I contracted a bad case of Ricky Martinitis. I’ve recently been tested for it again, and I still have it, but it’s a tad less acute. I mean, I still go to his concerts whenever he tours, and still listen to his music, and follow him on Instagram, but since I’ve loved him for over twenty years, the initial tachycardia has turned into more of a fond flutter. Nevertheless, my lips still turn up at the corners whenever I think of him; in fact, it’s happening right now.

Back then, however, I was mega-obsessed. To me, he was the most gorgeous thing since the invention of gorgeousness. I listened to his CDs on repeat, watched his videos over and over, and once, in a particularly brave moment, I even plucked up the courage to request one of his songs at the Farm Club in Verbier. You’ll be pleased to know that “She Bangs” went down far better than the DJ expected.

I’d never heard of Ricky Martin until early one morning in late 1995 when he appeared on television singing Maria (Un, Dos, Tres). There I was, a sleep-deprived heffalump sprawled out on the living room sofa in tatty pyjamas, trying to gather my neurones after yet another frazzling night during which Greg, my eleven-month-old son, had tested his vocal range well into the wee hours. My husband had gone to work, Greg had eaten his breakfast and had finally drifted off to sleep in his little recliner, and Olivia, my daughter, three-and-a-half-going-on-eighteen, was quietly playing with her Fisher Price camera (she’s now a fashion photographer).

I had the television on because my daughter loved to watch her VHS video of Barney, the cartoon dog, on repeat, which meant the tape needed to be rewound on repeat. While Barney was rewinding, I plopped an exhausted finger onto the remote control and was instantly zapped back to life by a young man with a gasp-inducing combination of cheeky-angelic good looks, enviable hip mobility, and an ability to flirt with the camera that probably taught the Supermodels of the time a thing or two.

Ricky and I have been on a first name basis ever since.

Cedric, my husband, amor that he is, has never seemed fazed by my love for Ricky. To be honest, I think he found it rather entertaining, especially as, back then, both of us were in desperate need of some light-hearted silliness in our lives because, apart from the joy of being young parents, there was a lot of very heavy stuff going on around us.

Sometime in April 2000, when Ricky toured to promote his “Livin’ la Vida Loca” album, Cedric and I left the children with my parents and flew to Barcelona to see him perform. The concert was an absolute fiesta, the atmosphere phenomenal, and the stadium filled with people of all ages singing all the words to all the songs. That concert cemented my adoration for Ricky. I bought the poster, the mug and the tee-shirt, too.

Back then, I was writing for a local magazine geared towards the ex-pat Geneva community, and the positive feedback I received encouraged me to try and write a novel. With life still hell bent on force-feeding both my own and my extended family the most bitter lemons imaginable, I craved escapism, and so every day, while my children were at school, I would sit at my desk, light a Nag Champa incense stick, gaze at the Ricky Martin poster pinned to the wall above my computer, and escape to Ibiza, my favourite place in the world. I spent the next eighteen months living in a hilarious, ultra-vivid parallel universe, putting my heroine, Gemma, under the spell of a handsome Latino superstar called Emilio Caliente. I chucked all sorts of embarrassing obstacles on their path to a happily-ever-after, enjoyed constant butterfly-stomach syndrome, and giggled at my own jokes. It was the best thing ever.

At the time, one of my closest friends had recently moved to Ibiza, so I often visited the island, and was lucky enough to spend an entire summer there while writing the book. One day, my friend caught an exciting rumour on the tinkly chimes of the Ibizinco grapevine: apparently Ricky Martin was on the island with the gorgeous Spanish model, Esther Cañadas. The chimes had even insinuated that the pair were staying in a little boutique hotel just down the road from her house. Giddy with excitement at the opportunity for me to meet the real-life Emilio Caliente, my friend rang to spill the sparkly beans. “Cesca, let’s go and have dinner there tonight!”, she finished, breathlessly.

Quick as a flash, I planted the kids with my parents, and zoomed over to her house with a bag full of clothes so that she could help me decide what to wear. Then we jumped into her car and hurried down the hill.

There were no Ricky sightings in that neck of the woods that evening, but we both looked sensational, enjoyed a great meal, and had a giggle.

But Ricky-mania has not just been giggles and bon-bon shaking and phantasmagorical rom-com material. I’ve also reaped significant linguistic rewards from Ricky. He’s been the best Spanish teacher I’ve ever had, elevating my basic, high-school Spanish to a very respectable semi-fluency. Whenever I’m in Spain and need to explain something in Spanish but can’t think of a particular word, I simply shoot through Ricky’s repertoire to find what I’m looking for, and then somehow manage to formulate my sentences in a way my interlocutor understands. Consequently, I’ve had deep and meaningful conversations on subjects ranging from global warming, gardening, solar panels, skincare, to what sort of lamb cut works best for a good stew. Duolingo? Pff! Trust me, fast track your Spanish with a Latino superstar.

I’ve now seen Ricky Martin many times in various European cities, and he’s always been fabulous. Most recently, Cedric and I saw his Symphonic concert at the Piazza Grande in Locarno, Switzerland on July 14th. We had a brilliant time, with me belting out all the songs along with the all the other superfans, and Cedric chiming in during the megahit choruses. And if anyone knows what organic supplements Ricky takes to maintain his physique, energy and incomparable dance moves, do tell, because not only do I want what he's having, I desperately need it.

Happiness is…me, at a Ricky Martin concert!

Cedric and I singing our little hearts out to Vuelve (one of my favourites) in Locarno

We were totally Livin’ la Vida Loca!

I often wonder what Ricky would think of the book he inspired me to write (I tend to think he’d be very flattered and have a good laugh), but I’m a bit shy and have never attempted to send it to him. Maybe I should? What do you think?

Now it’s your turn. Have you ever had a mega-crush on a superstar? It doesn’t have to be a popstar; it can be anyone in any field.

Or am I just really, really weird?

 

Just Like a Movie is available on Amazon

 

 

LITERARY SUPERSTARS, BOOK SIGNINGS, AND A WASP DOWN MY DRESS

What a morning! There is a big literary festival taking place in Morges, a lakeside town not far from where I live. I’ve never had the opportunity to go before, but I was free today and had seen on the program that there were many incredible authors there signing books, including Joyce Maynard and Jonathan Coe. And since it was the most gorgeous, warm, blue and yellow, day, I drove over after breakfast, while listening to  the first two chapters of Joyce Maynard’s latest book, The Bird Hotel. Also, just before leaving, In a last minute, what-the-hell-you-never-know moment, I’d grabbed a copy of my book, Just Like a Movie, and stuffed it into my bag.

 

I’m glad I chose to go this morning as parking was already complicated at 10.30 a.m., with people zooming around and around, looking for a space. I got lucky, and didn’t have too far to walk, which was definitely a plus considering the number of books I ended up buying!

 

There were hundreds of authors present, sitting behind long tables with copies of their books stacked up in front of them. Some of them seemed a little lonely and shy, others more at ease and eager to interact. I found the atmosphere exciting, inspiring and extremely friendly. I’m a shy person, so engaging with strangers doesn’t always come easily to me, especially around people I admire, but I was surprised by how completely at ease I felt.

 

Morges is for the most part a francophone literary festival, but there were quite a few international writers present. Being anglophone, I instinctively sought out the English authors section, where I immediately found Joyce Maynard. I waited until she had finished with the lady in front of me, and then introduced myself. I asked her lots of questions about her various books, as well as a little about herself, and we ended up chatting for longer than I expected. I bought two of her books, Count the Ways, and Under the Influence, which she signed, even drawing little pictures of me in the books while we chatted. She asked about me, so I told her that I lived here in Switzerland, briefly told her about my background and that I wrote, and then took a deep breath and asked her whether it would be ok if I gave her a copy of my book. She said she’d be delighted, and so I did, and she said she loved the cover, and then we took a photograph together, me holding her bestselling novel “Count the Ways”, and she holding my not so bestselling (yet!) novel, Just Like a Movie. What a wonderful moment! What a lovely person!

With Joyce Maynard!

 

I continued on my bookish discoveries and came across Sébastien Devrient, a Swiss author and film producer, who told me about writing his debut novel, IMMpact, while recovering from a knee injury sustained while climbing the south face of Annapurna. Since I’m well acquainted with injuries as well as writing, we had quite a lot in common; I told him about my terrible neck accident sustained while exploring the south face of certain yoga asanas, and his eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped and we had a bit of a giggle! Anyway, he was very friendly and interesting and clearly quite the intrepid when it comes to his film-making activities. He’s made over thirty movies, filmed in places like Nepal, Pakistan, and the Arctic circle. He’s a mountain climber, a mountain guide, he’s passionate about speleology, and his next documentary will be taking him down some tiny holes in terrifying sounding caves in…I can’t remember which country. Of course, I bought his book.

 

I wandered some more and soon locked eyes with a gentle looking, grey-haired man who struck me as shy, quiet and special, so I went to talk to him. His name is Santiago H. Amigorena, and he’s originally from Argentina. I don’t know what was in my cup of tea this morning, but I felt really at ease chatting with all these strangers, it was quite uncanny. Santiago introduced me to his work, and I immediately felt like a bit of a twit because he’s clearly a massive international literary superstar, has written goodness knows how many books, directed several films and written loads of screenplays for famous film directors, some of which are favourites of mine. I bought La Justice des Hommes, his latest novel which is based on a screenplay he co-wrote with Santiago Otheguy, as well as Le Premier Exil, which is autobiographical and tells of his childhood in Uruguay, and the terrors of dictatorship in South America during those years. What a soft-spoken, lovely man he is.

 

I then discovered Sarah Hall, author of The Wolf Border, Sudden Traveller, and Burntcoat  (I bought all three) among so many others. Sarah is absolutely charming, super easy to talk to, very inspiring and mega talented. She’s won innumerable literary prizes, and I admit to having felt a bit intimidated, but that soon changed when, a little later, I passed by her again having just had a wasp fly up my dress and sting me right in the middle of my back. Desperately trying to get it out, I made a split-second decision, having to choose between asking for help from Sarah Hall or her neighbour Jonathan Coe to whom I hadn’t yet spoken. I figured Jonathan Coe might be a little taken aback if some strange lady pounced on him and asked him to look down the back of her dress to see if he could spot a wasp, so I made a beeline (haha) for Sarah, and explained what had happened. Without a moment’s hesitation she got up, rushed around her table, pulled the back neckline of my dress outwards, shoved her hand down my back and out flew the wasp. Amazing!

 

Delivered from the wasp and trying hard not to scratch, I thanked Sarah, and approached Jonathan Coe. He was all twinkly and lovely, and I asked him which of his books he would recommend to someone who hadn’t read anything he’d written, and we agreed on Mr Wilder and Me, and Bournville. Out of curiosity, I asked him whether he knew my uncle, Ray Connolly, who is also an English writer, journalist, and screenwriter. He thought about it for a second, then he nodded and said, “Didn’t he have Covid?” Indeed, my uncle was hospitalized in London for over six months in 2020 with Covid, many of which were spent in a coma. My uncle made a miraculous recovery, even writing a brilliant, very moving radio screenplay about his Covid experience that was produced by the BBC. It’s called Devoted and if you can find it it’s definitely worth listening to. Anyway, Jonathan and I spoke about Ray and the two screenplays that were made into the films That’ll be the Day and Stardust, which was wonderful because he was there to talk about his own books and not about my uncle.

 

By then it was 12.30, and book lovers were arriving in droves. The tents were packed and it was very hot, and I couldn’t possibly carry any more books anyway, so I strolled back along the quay with a smile on my face, my wasp sting having been neutralized by some lovely ladies in the Samaritans tent wielding all the right lotions and potions.

 

I was so excited by my extraordinary morning that I had to tell someone all about it straight away, and so I called my mother on the way home. She was thrilled to hear about Jonathan Coe knowing her brother. She’ll be able to talk about it with Ray when she travels to London with my father this coming week. My parents will be staying with my aunt and uncle for a few days, before they all drive down to Cornwall together for my daughter’s wedding next weekend.

It’s going to be a beautiful wedding!

 

We will be staying in Cornwall for ten days, and I won’t be short of books to read…

 Have you been to many literary festivals? Which authors have you met? I’d love to know!

 

 My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie, is available on Amazon.

 

New Gold Dream

Goodness! I came across this vintage short story in a dark, dusty corner of my computer, and it took me back many, many years. That’s the great thing about writing down snapshots of your life; even if they are works of fiction, when you read them again they will inevitably swoop you back in time.

I still remember being really grumpy when this photo was taken in Venice. I think I was 15.

And how about music? What emotions appear when you hear an old, favourite song? If “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word” comes on the radio, where does it take you? What were you doing? Who does it remind you of? Me, I’m sixteen years old, self-combusting at the wonder of being asked to slow dance by the boy I’ve had a crush on for months. Oh, listen, now it’s “Hotel California”! What emotions do you associate with this legendary song? When I hear it, I’m in my early twenties (although I also remember dancing to it during school dances in my teenage years), and I’m in a silver Cadillac, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with my crazy friend who is driving with one foot sticking out of the window! What about “New Gold Dream”? Are you dancing, rolling your shoulders and punching the air?! Because - check me out! - I’ve got all those New Wave moves and I’m the coolest chick on the dance floor! How about “Take My Breath Away”? Does it conjure up steamy scenes in Top Gun for you? Or maybe just steamy scenes, full stop!!! When I hear it, although I do (of course!) see “those” scenes in Top Gun, the most vivid, romantic memory for me is dancing for the very first time with the man I knew I would marry. “Take My Breath Away” still reminds me of that breathtaking moment, over three decades ago, in a grotty little disco in a ski resort somewhere in the Swiss Alps.

Take my Breath Away… Cedric and me. How young we were!

Music is something I want to write about more, because it’s played such an important role in my life. Creatively speaking, I tend to write to music, and choose certain songs for particular scenes; it’s as if they put me in some sort of trance. I remember playing one particular track all day long while working on the first love scene in Just Like a Movie. It’s Swollen, by Bent, and I think it’s quite a sexy song! If I knew how how to link it here I would, but I don’t so, if you’re curious you’ll have to go on Spotify…

And did you also make mixed tapes, or CDs for your friends when you were young? I still make playlists, but on Spotify of course, and I’ve shared some of them with friends. Spotify playlists are great, but in my opinion, sending someone a link to a playlist isn’t quite as special as physically handing someone an actual tape or CD with tracks you’ve selected specially for them. Maybe I’m just showing my wrinkles again. What do you think?

That’s me, on the left, with the Top Gun perm, the belts and the cigarette, and all the New Wave moves. New Gold Dream!

Anyway, back to this vintage short story. It’s fiction of course, but I did once meet a gorgeous young man in Big Sur, a million years ago, who had the most unfortunate smile I’d ever seen. I hope he eventually managed to get it fixed, because he was truly spectacular looking. I’ve never forgotten him, and his memory popped up while I was writing one particular scene in Just Like a Movie. I wonder if you’ll spot him while reading the book…Please let me know!

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this funky little bit of time-travel.

IN THE NAME OF LUST

Big Sur

I wish I could say that my reasons for travelling to Big Sur, California, once the sacred land of the Ohlone Indians, were purely cultural. But it would only be a lame excuse. Lust is the only explanation for my solitary excursion on a rickety bus with equally rickety timetables, in fancy dress, in the sweltering July heat.

I was going back to Big Sur to meet up, hang out and, hopefully, make-out with the gorgeous blonde-haired and blue-eyed Danny, hippy leader of a group of die-hard fans of the late Jerry Garcia and his legendary band, “The Grateful Dead”.

 The first time I caught sight of Danny I was sunbathing with a group of friends on what must be one of the most beautiful beaches of the California coastline. He’d appeared, tanned, muscular and naked from the waist up, galloping along the surf on an Appaloosa pony. Having munched my way through a couple of sandwiches containing, among other organic matters, some unfamiliar strain of mushroom, my initial reaction was that I was hallucinating.  This guy was THE genetically engineered hippy - the Brad Pitt of hippies - complete with leather anklets, leather bracelets and beaded dreadlocks. If hippies have regalia, the man on the horse had the full monty.

 I spotted him off and on during the rest of the few days I spent in Big Sur, but if he noticed me, he made no attempt at conversation. He was obviously much sought after by his female hippy entourage and, as my look was far more GAP jeans than flower power, seemed oblivious to my charms.

But he hadn’t reckoned with the sheer determination of one resourceful woman.

I concluded that the way to his heart was a personal makeover. I returned to my home in San José and found a little Indian Bazaar laden with all sorts of hippie delights. I emerged with long, flouncy skirts, lacy camisole tops, kohl eye pencils, incense and little boxes of minuscule, multicoloured beads.

 The next few days were spent inhaling patchouli while squinting over my labour of lust: threading the beads onto nylon thread. I made bracelets, anklets; I even made myself a strand of beads long enough to drape around my tummy.

The fashion show I put on for the benefit of my housemates was a total success. From their bewildered reactions, I decided that Danny’s time as a single white man was up. I slipped on an ankle length pale blue lacy petticoat, a delicate white silk top held up by pale blue satin ribbons and pale blue suede flat sandals. I let my long blonde hair fall down my back, and - to complete the flower child look – spent a couple of hours weaving some of the leftover beads into randomly placed teeny plaits.

 My transformation complete, I packed the rest of my new look into a large, embroidered basket and rushed out to catch the bus.

When I reached Big Sur, I fluttered into “The River Inn” and ordered a Rainbow cocktail. Flattered by the approving looks of some of the less desirable hippies, I set off through the woods in search of Danny.

 I followed a path along the stream, picking flowers, singing Barclay James Harvest’s “Child of the Universe”, feeling light-headed and carefree.  After a while I sat down on a rock by a tranquil, turquoise pond filled with crayfish, half-expecting Bambi to appear at my side while birds settled on my bare shoulders.

 Bambi did not materialise, but a group of children of the universe soon did, and among them was, yesssss..., Danny! He’d left his Appaloosa at home today, but even horseless, had that stomach churning effect on me. I quickly rearranged my petticoat, flicked my beaded braids, let one of the satin straps fall casually off my shoulder and pretended to be dozing in the sun.

“Hey gorgeous, how ya doin’?” said a deep, throaty voice. I looked up into the bluest eyes, taking in the sunbleached dreadlocks, noting the aquiline nose, the golden tan, the six-pack stomach, the faded denim jeans and felt a quiver of anticipation. Then he smiled at me....

Danny had no teeth!

 

 My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie, is available on Amazon

 

Just Like a Movie

Just Like a Movie? Nice title! Sounds like fun! But, what movie? What type of movie?

To answer these types of questions I made a little video that I’m sharing here. As far as the story goes, Just Like a Movie has nothing to do with the films featured in the video; I made this short compilation just to give you a flavour of the book, which is fast-paced, fun, romantic and filled with music!

I hope you enjoy it!

Just Like a Movie, a romantic comedy, available internationally on Amazon

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Praise for Just Like A Movie

I compiled snippets from some of the great reviews Just Like a Movie has received from all over the world these past few weeks. Thank you to all those who read my book and took the time to write such lovely things about it. Word of mouth and reviews are very important to all indie authors as we rely on readers to promote our books. Thank you!

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If the bookshops at airports with direct flights to Ibiza devoted a whole shelf to Just Like a Movie they would be sure to sell them all. (UK)

 This is the ideal retro chick-lit summer read. Think Bridget Jones in Ibiza. Perfect for fans of Helen Fielding, Sophie Kinsella, Lauren Weisberger, or Jennifer Wiener. (US)

Gemma has the most personality of any romantic lead I’ve seen so far this year! (US)

Impossible to keep a straight face while reading this book! (India)

A brilliantly funny book that immerses you right into the story. (UK)

…a tremendous holiday read, hard to put down and completed in a couple of days. (UK)

A laugh a line! (Switzerland)

Hilariously funny (UK)

Be forewarned, reading this book might cause uncontrollable fits of laughter.(France)

Very, very witty! (Australia)

I loved this book… (Spain)

I really enjoyed this fun read! (US)

I read this over the weekend and could not put it down! (US)

 Just Like a Movie is available on all Amazon websites.

Wedding Vows and Wardrobe Malfunctions

I thought I was being clever by rolling out just one big suitcase for my husband, my son and myself when I packed for my daughter’s wedding in London last week. You see, I have a reputation of traveling with too much wherever I go. True, I tend to take fifty changes of underwear, tee-shirts galore, jeans in various colours and shapes, most of the medicine cabinet, and enough cosmetics to rival a good-sized Sephora. Admittedly, five kilos of makeup is a bit silly since I don’t wear much, but wouldn’t you agree that you never quite know which neutral shade of eyeshadow you fancy? Taupe? Nude Beach? Smokey Quartz? Cinnamon? The dilemma is real. Oh, and I take various pairs of shoes, too, because I have terrible feet. Big, wide, with ingrowing toenails, corns and all sorts of other podiatric delights. I don’t trust my right ankle much, so heels are not an option; instead I have an enviable collection of Birkenstocks, Adidas Stan Smiths’, and I’m working hard on growing my latest discovery, Teva hiking shoes and sandals. Trust me when I say they are a game changer. And I’m not even getting a kickback. Yet?

Anyway, I’m getting both carried away and side-tracked. Let’s just say I felt relatively smug about having managed to share a suitcase, given the circumstances.

Traveling on Swiss from Geneva, we landed at London Heathrow, all bright eyed and bushy tailed about the happy event scheduled for the following day at one o’clock. We swiped breezily through biometric customs and ambled over to the luggage belt assigned to our flight where we waited for our suitcase. We waited. And waited some more. After about twenty minutes I jokingly texted my daughter: “What if our suitcase doesn’t arrive?” To be honest, I was only half joking as my tummy was beginning to suggest that our suitcase wasn’t going to pop out of Heathrow’s luggage intestines, and that we might be about to experience a major wedding wardrobe malfunction.

 Ten minutes later, a nice man at Lost Luggage confirmed to us what my tummy already knew; our suitcase had gone walkabout; but not to worry, there were two more Swiss flights coming in later, so it might well be on one of those, in which case it would be delivered to our hotel.

 My tummy, always the party pooper, didn’t think so.

 All we had was what my carry-on contained: my daily medication, my phone charger, my jean jacket, and a pair of spare sandals I’d sneakily thrown in at the last minute.

 We arrived at the hotel late in the afternoon and rushed out to buy toothbrushes and toothpaste, makeup remover, deodorant and a basic moisturizer to spare me from Sahara syndrome. And then we rushed out again for a quick bite to eat with the groom’s lovely parents, before hopping on the Underground to go and see the fantastic ABBA Voyage concert (go and see if it you can!) where, in a moment of genius, I purchased an ABBA tee-shirt to wear in case I had to go panic shopping in Selfridges the following morning.

I did.

 Friday morning, at nine fifty-eight a.m, I was waving at the man in charge of opening the glass sliding doors of Selfridges on Oxford Street like a crazed shopaholic. He took no notice, waiting until precisely ten to press the magic button, whereupon I ran in, raced up the escalators and made a beeline for a reliable Italian brand where I knew I’d find something nice in my limited timeframe.

 “SOS!” I yelped at the shop assistant, pulling on my ABBA tee-shirt. “My daughter is getting married in three hours and I have nothing to wear but this.” She blinked at me, clearly flummoxed by such shopping inadequacy in the face of such a monumental occasion. I explained what had happened. “Mamma Mia!” she exclaimed (not really!) and immediately rallied, summoning other assistants who in turn contacted the hair salon upstairs, and a makeup artist on the ground floor; “Mayday, Mayday! Everyone on deck, this is not a drill! We repeat: this is not a drill!”

 They were brilliant. At 12.20 I was back in my hotel room with a lovely dress, clean underwear, and sporting the best makeup I’ve worn in my entire life. The hair salon hadn’t worked out; there simply hadn’t been enough time, but by hair was alright, and I could always pull it back if necessary.

 My husband and my son had taken themselves to M&S for their ceremonial needs, where they’d also received VIP service. The Bossert family’s image had been salvaged in extremis by liberal use of credit cards. Phew!

 As for the missing suitcase, there were no new developments.

 Naturally, our suitcase trauma immediately vanished into the recesses of our minds when our beautiful daughter appeared, the picture of romantic, simple elegance in a full-length, off-white, body skimming silk dress cut in a deep V in the front, featuring lots of tiny little buttons and short, floppy sleeves. Her thick, long blonde hair was styled in that perfect, casual yet intricate updo that only an excellent hairdresser can achieve and finished off with a beautiful tiara-like headband. Her bouquet was English countryside summer garden perfection.

 Do you think my husband and I were emotional? Thank goodness for waterproof mascara and tissues.

 The ceremony was relaxed and fun; the groom managed to say “my awfully wedded wife” instead of “my lawfully wedded wife”, whereupon our daughter nearly fell over and everyone got the giggles. Afterwards, we threw confetti, took photographs, and cat-walked through the streets of London in our finery to the delight of quite a few Chinese tourists who snapped photos of us, clearly awed by such incomparable beauty and elegance!

 We had a late lunch in a nice Italian restaurant, after which we returned to the hotel to find our suitcase had arrived! Hurray! I got to change into a dress before heading back out again to watch “Grease”, the musical, which was ok, but not a patch on the film (why did they change the storyline and not have any “baddies” in it? Why was there no race? Danny struck me as a bit shy, and while Sandy had a great voice, she wasn’t on stage much, which was weird. Also, what were Kenickie and the rest of the gang randomly taunting the policeman about? It was all a bit wonky). The heavens opened as we emerged from the theatre, and we were all soaked by the time we got back to the hotel, where we dried off in the bar with a little help from gin and tonics.

 The trip back to Switzerland the following day went as smoothly as the famous Santana song, and we look forward to further festivities in Cornwall next week where the “big” wedding will take place. This time our special outfits will be in our hand luggage. And nobody will be sharing a suitcase.

My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie, is available on all Amazon sites.