Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 54

Moonlounging

These past few days, there's been talk of a big meteor shower happening in our latitudes. So last night, super excited, my husband and I were ready to defy extreme eyelid fatigue and stay up way beyond our bedtime to watch the amazing shooting star spectacle.

 

We got everything ready. We put the moonloungers in position in the garden (moonloungers? Haven’t you heard? What, you don't have any? You can find them in any chi-chi garden centre close to you. They cost a little more than sunloungers, but hey, their shooting star viewing ratio in comparison to sun loungers is guaranteed, so definitely worth the investment. I'm kidding, of course. But I bet if someone made them, they might even sell...), found our favourite blankets, double checked the news to see in which direction we should be pointing our moonloungers, made ourselves cups of herbal tea and settled down in the darkness to watch the celestial spectacle.

 

We lay there for ages, scrutinising the heavens. I got a little chilly, and cocooned myself into my synthetic blanket like a little Anglo-Italo-Swiss caterpillar, with only my eyes peeping out of the aqua-blue Ikea chenille. There were definitely more mosquitoes than shooting stars out and about, which was a bit of a bummer, but to be expected at this time of the year, I suppose. In fact, the sky was so boring that, after a while, I asked my husband at what time the sound and light show upstairs was supposed to start. He ignored me, so I decided we'd missed the first bit and went to get us ice-creams.

 

We saw lots of aeroplanes, and quite a few satellites. Teeth chattering, I was about to call it a night and head inside to bed to listen to Will Smith's autobiography on audiobook in the comfort of my bed (it's brilliant! If you haven't read/listened to it, I highly recommend doing so) when, within the space of a minute, three shooting stars whooshed by, directly overhead. Sadly, I didn't actually hear the whooshes - the last time I heard the whoosh of a shooting star was circa 1983 at the Esalen Institute hot tubs in Big Sur, California... but I hadn't been drinking herbal tea and eating ice cream back then. I'm guessing the 2023 soundtrack is pretty similar if you partake in what it takes. At least I like to think so.

Anyway, three shooting stars? We were totally winning! We lay there, thinking up what next wishes we might make, eagerly awaiting further interstellar excitement.

All of a sudden, the garden sprinklers erupted all around us! I squealed, grabbed my aqua blue chenille and ran for cover, giggling. My husband bravely dragged our moonloungers to safety, then joined me inside, shaking droplets from his "mèche" (he's recently retired and is growing his hair).

We'd managed to make three wishes each, which I'd say is pretty good innings for about 40 minutes of celestial scrutiny.

I fell asleep just as Will Smith was about to tell me all about getting in trouble with taxes. Sweet dreams are made of this!

How many shooting stars did you see? (Also, did you hear them?)

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

A Moron in a Mehari

(and not a superstar in a Ferrari!!)

 Walking up the mountain this afternoon, on my usual 6 kms circuit, I heard a car coming up behind me. As it grew closer, I heard a Michael Buble song playing, Beautiful Day. I love that song and, years ago, I did a dressage freestyle to it. I thought, “Oh, how cool to be playing that, it’s such a good song, perfect for a nice drive up the mountain! I bet they’re really nice people.”

Within seconds they were zooming past me in a bright orange, open-topped Mehari type car, except it may not have been a Mehari because it was new, and I don’t know whether Mehari still make cars, but it doesn’t matter. Anyway, as they passed me, again I thought, “Oh, what a cool car! They’d be super fun to hang out with!”

And then the driver, a man, reached an arm over his door and flicked a cigarette butt onto the road.

What the….?

It made me so cross! We’re up the Jura on a country road, surrounded by nature, with views so gorgeous I get goose bumps. Plus, it hasn’t rained much for ages, so everything is dry, and the news is full of apocalyptic visions of raging forest fires all over the planet, and some twit doesn’t know any better?

Believe me, were I thirty-odd years younger I’d have sprinted after them, yelling, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen with my wonky hips.

So instead, I kept my eyes on the road, found the cigarette butt, and carried it in my hand right down the mountain until I found a bin. Don’t worry, it was definitely out because it’s a hot day, and I had a long way to walk before I got to the bin, and my hand was all sweaty from holding the damn thing.

And now I’ve got to retrain my brain to associate that song with the dressage program I rode, and not with a cigarette throwing moron in an orange kit car. Please tell me you think it can be done…

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

How To Retain Your Sparkle

or

The Art of Reinvention

There are times in life when we need to reinvent ourselves. It’s never straightforward, and it’s often painful. We know change is inherent, yet it makes us uncomfortable, throws us out of our comfort zone. Some people say they roll with it, claiming to even embrace it, although I tend to believe bravado has quite a big mouth!

Reinventing yourself is hard, especially when you’re left standing there, holding up the wonky pieces of your life and wondering what the heck you’re going to do now, how you’re going to cope. I’ve hit rock bottom a few times, for various reasons. I say rock bottom, but I’m fully aware that my rock bottom isn’t someone else’s rock bottom, and knowing this tends to mess with my head. That’s when I can spiral.

While I know I’m allowed to feel sad, low, depressed, etc., two seconds of mental revision of my situation can push me into self-flagellation. Hello Guilt, what’s the story? Bonjour, Shame, how you doing? Oh, for goodness’ sake, woman, snap out of it! Count your bloody blessings!

I do, really, I do. I’m aware of how lucky I am. But being aware of being lucky doesn’t always turn your frown upside down and send you skipping down the garden path. Yes, I’m lucky. I have a garden path. And yet, there are days when… Pfff!

I had an accident two years ago that changed my life. I’ve had to give up my lifelong passion. I’ve had to give up horses.

I was born horse mad. Or, initially, pony mad. Same difference, really. I used to cry because I couldn’t have a pony; and my nana used to tell me that when she won the Premium Bonds (which from what I gather is some form of British lottery) she’d buy me one. That never happened, although she did buy me a moped when I was 14, which was wiser (although, looking back at what I did with it, far more dangerous!) because as I know too well from having owned horses since my early twenties, buying a horse is only the beginning. Never again will you be laughing all the way to the bank!

I’ve loved all the horses I’ve owned, and I still have a horse. His name is Dominic, and he’s lovely. At 19, he’s in the league of older gentlemen, and since I’m no spring chicken we’re a good a match. At least we were until I sprained a neck ligament during a yoga class and found myself flat on my back for two months with electric shocks and convulsions. It was terrifying; I didn’t dare move, because when I did, I’d be randomly struck by an invisible cattle prod. I couldn’t do anything. At all. To the extent that, initially, I couldn’t so much as lift a glass of water to my lips. I was prescribed strong neuropathic medication for over six months, and saw a therapist for depression. I had acupuncture several times a week and still need regular physiotherapy. I live with the sensation of some sort of knife planted just beneath my left shoulder blade. Initially, it was a big dagger, then it gradually turned into a smaller dagger. Now it oscillates between a pen knife and a big needle. Today it’s about the size of a small Swiss army knife; I guess I’ve been spending too much time in front of the computer. Note to self: try to pace yourself better.

Anyway, I went to see Dominic today. He is always happy to see me, probably because all I do now is feed him carrots and horse treats, and give him kisses! I can’t groom him because it tends to send my neck and shoulders into a flare, so I don’t dare. And if he knocks my head or upper body in any way… well, it could be disastrous.

Trust me, I know there are so many worse things than no longer being able to ride. What didn’t initially occur to me is that I would also lose my social life. I used to spend hours at the stables every day, with my friends. We’d groom, ride, chat, drink coffee and discuss horse problems, and children problems, and husband problems. And we giggled a lot. When I became injured, I lost my everyday support group. Chronic pain can take you to a dark, lonely place. Even when – over time – my injury became less acute, my movements more fluid, and my life regained a certain normality, it was a different, more guarded normality, which certain people found difficult to understand. Sometimes, this lack of empathy really stung.

I tried to ride again a couple of times. I’d get someone to prepare Dom for me (which I hated) and then have them hold him while I got on (so amateur! Ugh!). But just holding the reins created tension in my neck and shoulders, and after the agony I’d initially been through, I was terrified of something happening that might take me back there again.

Basically, it wasn’t possible because it wasn’t worth it.

I’ve come to terms with no longer riding. I’ve started writing again, another lifelong passion. I’m reinventing myself. I’ll be fine, I’ve done it so many times. I’ve been a rock chick, a model, a secretary, a translator, a gardener, a cleaning lady, a writer, an artist, a showjumping rider, a dressage rider. I’ve done crochet, knitted, learned to sew. I have an excellent knowledge of Pilates. I’m the wife of a fantastic man, and the mother of two wonderful grown-up children. Ooh, and I have a real talent for shopping!

What I’ve come to realise is that, fundamentally, I’ll always be all of those things. “Hmmm, I don’t know about the rock chick!” you say, looking dubiously at my photograph. Well, run into me at a concert and you’ll see that the rock chick in me is still alive and kicking! For obvious reasons, my moves are a little more guarded than back in the day, but I can still belt out a whole load of band’s repertoires like nobody’s business!

We are all multi-faceted. We can all sparkle and shine, despite adversity. We don’t need to embrace it, but if we tiptoe in, give ourselves time to find our new bearings, we will sparkle and shine again. When we reinvent ourselves, we turn the key into a new beginning, which is what I wrote about in my romantic comedy. In Just Like a Movie, I tackle some serious topics in a lighthearted way (nb: if you are tempted to buy Just Like a Movie, please note that if you live in Switzerland you have to buy it from the Amazon.fr, or Amazon.de, or Amazon.es websites, as the British one will not sell it to you for some obscure reason).

Gemma, my heroine, is lucky. Of course she is; she’s the lead in a romantic comedy. Happy endings are mandatory. I hope you will love her as much as I do (and please let me know!).

Real life isn’t a romantic comedy, but I know that, like Gemma, I’m incredibly lucky, too.

Tell me about you. How many times have you reinvented yourself?

 

Fresh August Air

I went walking again today, and while walking probably sounds like a total non-event to most people, for me it’s quite the celebration. Something to write home about, as they say.

I haven’t been able to walk much for the past three and a half years because my hips went wonky on me, both my gluteus Medius tendons fraying like weathered old ropes from decades of riding horses. I also developed bursitis, which if you’ve had, you will know how painful it is when it flares.

Heading out…

I couldn’t get any doctors to take my pain seriously for ages, which was very frustrating. No matter how much I told them that walking any distance was becoming more and more painful, they shrugged me off, telling me I should just move more, or prescribing a bit of physiotherapy coupled with anti-inflammatories. Anyway, eventually (long crazy story, best saved for another time!) a team of doctors halfway across the country figured out that a couple of cortisone infiltrations might make me more comfortable. I’ve felt a lot better ever since being injected, although I have to remember to pace myself, which has never been my forte. I’m also a fervent believer in the benefits of Pilates, which I do regularly. The main thing is that I can once again enjoy the countryside on Shanks pony (does anybody still recognise that expression or am I showing my wrinkles?).

Distance-wise, I can’t go mega far. I can manage about 6 kms, tops, beyond that I get too sore. But there’s a lovely 5,7 kms loop that starts from my house, does a gentle meander up the Jura foothills, and then wiggles softly back home again. Of course, if your gluteus Medius’ and other bits are ship-shape you could keep on meandering right to the top of the mountain, all the way to La Barillette, which would be wonderful. Personally, if I ever feel the inclination to go up there, I’m afraid I have to get the car out.

But no matter how you get there, the views from La Barillette are phenomenal, sweeping right across the plateau and the Lac Léman, and if I recall correctly you’ll also find nice little fondue restaurant where you can indulge in some serious sustenance.

Anyway, up my little loop I meandered in this weird August weather. To be honest, the cooler temperatures we’re experiencing are perfect for walking, although a little more summer sun wouldn’t be frowned upon, right?

Having only moved here recently, I’m not yet very familiar with the area surrounding my house, at least not as far as going for walks is concerned. But nature is spectacular, and I love how quiet it is compared to where we were before. Apart from the occasional roar of mad motorcyclists racing up the mountain on the main road, or speed fanatics in cars abusing their accelerators, it’s pretty tranquil in this part of the world.

I always feel a sense of pride at what my body has achieved when I reach the top of my circuit. I tend to even stop for a while, smiling at the view and talking to myself like a weirdo. Someone very lucky is building a house up there, and I bet that when they finally move in they’ll never go anywhere ever again, because they’ll be stuck on their terrace, or at their living room window, staring at the view and saying “wow” over and over!

Wow!!

On my back way down, I saw a beautiful fox strolling through a freshly cut wheat field and once again paused, watching him, even attempting to take a couple of photos with my phone. Then I stood quietly, taking in all the different colours and patterns merging into each other: the prickly golden stubs of cut wheat, the deep green of the elegant cornfield, the trees and the mountains and the crazy clouds in a schizophrenic sky.

Spot the fox!

If you look closely, you can just about see the fox in my photo, which makes me happy, but is nothing to write to David Attenborough about.

What else did I see? I saw a house fit for a princess, complete with a tower. I saw dozens of little wooden chalets, many festooned with colorful bunting featuring all the cantonal flags of Switzerland, presumably set up for the 1st of August, which is Swiss National day. Some of the more permanently patriotic residents had installed proper flagpoles flying big Swiss flags.

Fit for a Princess

Geese? Or are they ducks?

I walked and watched and listened. I saw people walking dogs, and cats walking themselves. I heard people raking leaves in gardens, I heard the snip-snip of secateurs, I heard a father ask his little boy to go and find another big bag in the garage so that they could get all the leaves and twigs and deadheaded flowers out of the way and make everything look nice and tidy before mama got home. I saw groups of cyclists with red faces and impressive calves, pedaling up up up, probably looking forward to the nice fondue and glass of white wine they’d order when they made it to the top.

I saw an elderly lady sitting on a bench all alone, looking a little sad as she stared out into the wide-open space that stretched out in front of her, and I wondered whether she might be thinking of someone she loved who is no longer be around. I saw people enjoying a picnic at a pretty little barbecue spot, and a little further on I saw an empty bottle of wine set on top of a roadside bin and wondered who’d enjoyed it. I saw three geese resting in the middle of the road by a higgledy-piggledy farm. I saw wildflowers, some mingling merrily in a festival of colours, some just plain party-poopers, happier alone. I saw a huge old oak tree with a bench underneath it and almost sat down for a little rest, but didn’t in case my hips thought they were finished with walking for the day and wouldn’t let me get back up again. I saw elderly horses swishing at flies in sun-dried fields, young cows bouncing around like unruly children. I saw a mother and daughter out on a run, and a family of five out on their bicycles, the children lined up like little ducks. I walked for just over an hour, enjoying my own company, dreaming up bits to feature in the book I’m writing, listening to the wind in the trees, and breathing in the gorgeous fresh medley of country smells.

Is this yours?

And then I came home and thought I’d write to you and tell you all about it!

 

Do you like to go for walks? How far can you go? What do you see in your area of the world?

 

Tell me! I’d love to know.

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

From “Mucho Caliente!” to “Just Like a Movie”

And all the messy bits (aka life!) in between…

There are massive gaps in my writing career. Not because I periodically no longer enjoyed writing, but because things happened to me that caused me to stop. Trauma, both mental and physical, played a part in these interruptions, and depending on which variation of trauma I was dealing with, I channeled my creativity in other directions.

 I love making things. I love holding something that I’ve crafted from start to finish. I throw myself into new creative forays and become obsessed with whatever it is I’m currently involved in. My husband says I’m a little extreme. Fundamentally, I just think I’m interested in lots of different things, which is a blessing considering the number of times when circumstances have obliged me to reinvent myself.

 As a child, like most children, I drew and painted. Some of my paintings still exist, proudly exhibited in my parent’s house, and I even think that my uncle and aunt still have a pen and ink zebra I gifted them circa age 12, as well as an odd-looking clown (it’s amazing what good frames can do!!). Even I have a watercolour I painted in my mid-teens. It’s a naïf-style frozen lake ice-skating scene that I’m still rather proud of. It’s currently in my office, waiting for a decent frame. Come to think of it, it’s been waiting for a decent from for a long time.

 I loved to write. I wrote long letters to my grandmother, I wrote stories, and since I was born with horses and ponies on the brain, these often revolved around riding schools and wild ponies. I even wrote a couple of plays, one of which was produced in a town hall when I was about seven. I played the lead: a princess, of course. I kept a diary throughout my teenage years, detailed outpourings of anguish at not being cool enough, pretty enough, popular enough. Heartbroken tales of unrequited love, snippy accounts of feeling grossed out by poor boys who liked me but whom I had no interest in, chronicles of mini moments of acute happiness when a boy I’d fawned over for weeks finally smiled at me. I often wonder what happened to all those deep red, hardbound, A4 notebooks filled with raw emotion. I wish I still had them.

 Craft wise, I learnt to knit in primary school. My Italian grandmother taught me how to crochet. I dabbled in basic pottery, made collages with old magazines and photographs. I learnt to paint on silk, on velvet, on glass, on ceramics. My mother still has a full set of Christmas themed champagne glasses I painted back in the 90s. More recently, YouTube videos taught me how to sew. I’ve made more bags than fit in my cupboards!

 I started writing “seriously” in the mid-nineties, following a bad riding accident that could easily have been fatal. A friend of a friend had started a magazine for the local ex-pat community, and I offered to write a couple of articles. “Mrs Bean goes to Verbier”, recently uploaded onto my website, was one of them. It’s a personal favourite.

 But it was the very first one I wrote, a humorous piece about having once been a rock chick, that won me fan mail and encouraged me to write a novel. Eighteen months later, cheered on by a selection of girlfriends who read it chapter by chapter, night after night, and who invariably wanted to know what happened next, I had written and edited a romantic comedy called “Mucho Caliente!” that soon attracted the interest of a major literary agent in London who was certain the book was going to be a major success.

 For various, complicated reasons, this didn’t happen. I wrote another book, but the pressure of having to outdo myself after having written Mucho took me to a bad place. I struggled with anxiety, with self-doubt, and stopped writing altogether. Horses reappeared in my life, and I overcame my fear of riding. After a few quiet years on the writing front, my literary agent and I parted ways, and when e-publishers became popular, a friend of mine convinced me to submit my book to a company in Texas who also did print-on-demand. They immediately accepted it.

 “Mucho Caliente!” was published in 2008. It got some lovely reviews, made a handful of people giggle and smile. I’d been successful in what I’d set out to achieve, which was to see my book in print. But I lacked visibility. Social media wasn’t what it is now. Basically, my book soon sank without a trace. Occasionally, bubbles of laughter would float up from the depths of the Internet; someone somewhere had come across it and thoroughly enjoyed it. I even found a great review on Elle USA’s online edition!

 Which eventually got me thinking: maybe “Mucho Caliente!” deserved a second chance?

 Which is why, after years of mulling over what might have been if the stars had aligned properly from the onset, I asked my American publisher to give me my rights back. I intended to give the book a bit of a rewrite, possibly change the title, and republish it, quick as a flash.

 And then Covid hit. And then I got injured. And then I got injured again, far worse than the first time. Mentally, I hit rock bottom. Chronic pain is something I’ve had to learn to live with; there are things I loved doing that I can no longer do (for instance, no more riding or taking care of horses), and I need to pace myself when it comes to spending hours on the computer, or working on a crochet project, or sewing. I hardly read paperbacks anymore because holding a book up for long periods of time puts strain on my neck. Instead, I listen to audiobooks, which I’ve come to love. Dealing with recurring pain has required considerable mental, physical, even social adjustments, which at times I’ve found hard to accept.

 So, it’s only recently, in June 2023, almost twenty years after first appearing as “Mucho Caliente!”, that my book has finally been republished under the title “Just Like a Movie”. Featuring a gorgeous new cover designed by my daughter, this heartwarming story is finding its way towards new readers. I sparkle with pride every time someone tells me how they couldn’t put it down, how it made them laugh, how certain aspects of Gemma’s personality resonated with them. Of course, I especially love hearing that Emilio Caliente has become their favourite imaginary boyfriend!

 I’m writing another book. I’m filled with a mad mix of excitement and gratitude and fear of failure and impostor syndrome. I worry about the intense physical pain I experienced not so long ago coming back. But above all, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved.

 “Just Like a Movie” is a very funny book, engineered to make you happy. Set in Ibiza in summer 2000, it begins with recently divorced Gemma running away to Ibiza. She’s sitting on a plane waiting for takeoff when a handsome Spanish pop music superstar whom she’s admired for years sits down next to her. They exchange pleasantries during the flight, before accidentally walking off with each other’s duty-free bags. So, they have to meet again…

 And as I said to my girlfriends who read it chapter by chapter, night after night, all those years ago, I hope it makes you smile.

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