Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 55

The Sashay

Years ago, while I was working on a book, I bought a pair of gorgeous, high-heeled, hot pink mules. 

They were a silly impulse buy, designed for someone else’s lifestyle, and someone else’s feet. You see, after the birth of my children, my relatively easygoing size 41s morphed into square, constantly grumpy size 42s. From one day to the next they refused point blank to be smushed into anything that wasn’t flat, wide and designed for comfort. Today they might tolerate a butter-soft, extra-wide ballerina, or maybe a flat, suede boot, to be worn on very special occasions, and even then, only under duress. 

That’s if I can find a pair in my size.

With eight-centimetre heels, those hot-pink mules were far too high for me. They were also far too narrow, and at least half a size too small. But I fell in love with them, and thought they’d look cute with rolled-up jeans. Maybe they’d stretch? Maybe I’d learn to walk in heels again? Maybe it really was just a matter of forcing myself to wear “real” shoes? And maybe if I wore them around the house, I’d get used to them? Also, maybe they’d help me reconnect with the cute little sashay I’d had in my twenties?

So I wore them around the house. Except I didn’t go “around” the house. I just sat in front of my computer for five hours a day, struggling to get the story I had in my head onto the page, with the pink mules dangling seductively off the tips of my toes, à la Carrie Bradshaw.

Seductively?!

Here’s the thing: Carrie Bradshaw had perfect little feet. Her cool shoes matched her cool words. My clodhoppers just wanted out. And my brain whirled endlessly, stuck in panic mode for two, endless years.

I didn’t sashay. I fell flat on my face.

The hot pink mules left my wardrobe long ago. I gave them to a friend with smaller feet and outstanding sashaying skills. They lived a long and glamourous life with her, going to fancy restaurants, travelling to faraway places, dancing under glitter balls in New York, London, Paris, Verbier, and were last seen in the piano bar of a fancy hotel in Capri.

As for that manuscript, it lives in a drawer in my desk. It has a good title and might have been decent if only I’d been able to get out of my own way.

Strangely enough, one of the minor characters in the book, an elderly, feisty Sicilian lady called Signorina Giuseppina, has recently started waking me up in the middle of the night. Giuseppina has a deep, gravelly, smoker’s voice and a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. Born in the mid 1920s in the seaside village of Cefalù, she was a staunch advocate for women’s rights. She showed her rebellious streak early on by opening a scandalous little boutique selling lingerie and swimwear, and she was proud of having been the first woman in Sicily brave enough to wear a bikini on the beach in the early 1950s. She had plenty of friends but lived alone, collecting boyfriends like they were shells on the beach. Giuseppina never married, but something tells me she might have been in love with a married man. She had a canary called Adriano Celentano, grew her own vegetables, swam in the sea all year round, made a killer Cassata, and loved to get all dressed up and take to the dance floor in the village square whenever there was a “ballo liscio”.

I bet Signorina Giuseppina had a world class sashay and that she’d have rocked my hot pink mules, don’t you?

Maybe one day, when I’ve finally finished the manuscript that I’m working on, I’ll find out. Giuseppina sounds like she might be cool to hang out with for a year or two!

I’m not sure how to end this, so I’ll simply leave you with a fun song from 1983 called Talking in Your Sleep by the Romantics that I hadn’t thought about in years until it popped up in my head right now, just when I needed it. Ooh, my sashay was killer back then! Do you remember this song? 

 

The Age of Random

 (Including a very silly video about how to make your bed)

Last night, as I lay under my duvet waiting for my sleep-aid supplement to take effect, I came across an article in The Guardian about a TikTok trend aimed at teaching people how to structure their days. It appears that some people don’t really know what to do when they first wake up, or maybe they need some cutely presented guidance about how they might set up a daily routine. Maybe there are people out there right now gazing helplessly at their screens, eagerly awaiting instructions from some gorgeous young Influencer who is currently experiencing a glitch on her scheduled publication of how to fold a tea-towel. They’re all feeling loooooosssssstttt (spoken softly, with a long hiss on the S and an added echo, like in that old TV series that was good for a while but never really went anywhere) when it comes to doing…well, anything, apparently!

Which strikes me as kind of cute, really. I think my sister, V, should get in on this trend ASAP because she’s the most organized person I have ever met in my life, and her tea-towel folding skills are off the charts. Actually, all her skills are off the charts. And she makes lists concerning other lists. The woman is phenomenal. Also, she always looks phenomenal. She has four kids, too!

I have no problem at all with people seeking a Mother Hen figure to understand how to organize their day. Clearly, this Tik Tok thing must really be a “thing” because even my mushy old brain remembered it overnight. It’s struck a chord that’s now stuck in my head, pinging a high-pitched note over and over (LAAAAAAA??!!!), and here I am writing about it right after filming myself giving the world a daft Ted Talk about changing our bedsheets. I mean, I’m mega camera shy! So, what on earth came over me?

 

I’m guessing the article spoke to me because I’m also rather random when it comes to daily chores. In fact, I’m quite random in everything I do, really. I’m not an organized person who rolls out of bed upon awakening and flits gracefully towards the bathroom, swathed in a pretty silk robe. Are you? Let me know in the comments.

Personally, I need to lie there for a bit in my old white cotton pjs, asking myself whether I slept well, and if I did, was it because I took this sleep aid supplement or that sleep aid supplement, and depending on which one I took, how does my brain feel.

Usually, at this point, the curious part my brain doesn’t quite know how it feels about anything just yet, because it’s always running roughly half an hour behind schedule first thing in the morning. When I eventually sit up, reach over to grab the blackout curtain and drag it to one side to see whether it’s another sunny day – which it often is at the moment! We’re in Spain! -  I then move on to checking the operational state of my knees, hips and bumps a daisy, which I’m pleased to report are all doing relatively well these days because my body likes being Spanish. Then I’ll place my feet on the floor and inevitably feel a strange numbness in the sole of my left foot that always disappears after about 8 steps, so I don’t bother about it too much. I’m just mentioning it in case you might have noticed something similar going in with your feet, and if there is, we have something to discuss in the comments.

I’m feeling no need to describe the five minutes after getting out of bed, because I’m guessing all of us have a similar routine, right? Again, feel free to enlighten me in the comments, but I’d appreciate everyone keeping all topics relatively genteel.

Anyway, I’ll then get dressed, often retrieving something I wore the day before that I simply took off as I went to bed and dropped onto my “discarded clothes chair”, which is located in the corner beside my wardrobe. Unless they need washing, my clothes tend to pile up on this chair for a couple of days, and then I’ll have a crisis and put everything away. What do I wear most days? I tend to go for a look that’s relaxed, cute and comfortable. Today I’m wearing jeans with daisies embroidered on them from the knee down. I bought them in Anthropology years ago, and found them on my chair this morning. I’ve paired them with an an old white linen shirt from Zara which I actually found in my wardrobe and not on my chair. If it’s a tad chilly I’ll just throw a big soft crocheted fringed shawl over my shoulders because I do enjoy rocking a little Stevie Nicks boho-glam vibe, you know what I mean?

Sometimes, if I feel like I’m looking a bit too rough, or my rosacea has been having a disco party overnight, I’ll put on a little makeup before I go down for breakfast, just so I don’t scare away the bunnies, the birdies, my husband or any house guests. But before I can sit down to breakfast I have about twenty minutes worth of supplements to take in order to keep me looking and feeling my best as an untweaked 62-year-old recovering from a neck ligament sprain, two messed up gluteus medius’, funky knees, a wonky right ankle, traces of Lyme disease, an auto-immune disease, as well as a number of other minor boring things stemming from having been active all my life and now bravely venturing into my 6th decade.

Breakfast tends to consist of gluten-free muesli with berries and a massive cup of tea with a good splash of oat milk, whereupon I then move on to far more important things, such as coffee. After breakfast I’ll be heading back upstairs to make the bed, unless my husband beats me to it, which he often does (come to think of it, he’d make the ultimate Organize Your Day TikToker), because chances are I’ll get distracted and gaze out of the window for an hour or so, admiring the leaves falling off the poplar trees at the bottom of the garden, and smiling fondly at the heron strolling across the field beyond (it’s actually a golf course, but I’m not posh, not really, I promise). I’ll turn on my computer and check my website’s analytics for random visits, as well as my KDP account for sales of my romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie (LOL!), and then probably scroll the Internet for a while, reading about all the terribly upsetting things taking place all over the planet and wondering why a small minority of bad people are allowed to make a large majority of good people’s lives a living hell.

I’ll get depressed for a while and go for a walk, before returning to my desk and wondering how the heck I’m going to move the action forwards in the novel I’m currently working on, because it has so many themes that need layering into the story that it feels a bit like I’m trying to structure a big bowl of cooked spaghetti.

I’ll play with my cooked spaghetti for four or five hours, occasionally glancing out of the window and wondering whether I’m allowed to go and play outside for a while, because this is hard and maybe it’s not really worth doing because so many people write books and everyone is cleverer than me and they’re also now all publishing fabulous prose willy-nilly on Substack. And maybe I should too, but I’ll probably just look silly, so maybe I should just start making videos about random stuff like making my bed, or do makeup tutorials, but I’m mega shy so I doubt that’s about to become my new creative venture. Today’s video popped out of me randomly, because I’m a random person. I’m a shy free spirit.

And anyway, I love playing with my cooked spaghetti novel.

Which is what I’m going to do now. So, I’ll leave you to enjoy my video about making my bed.

Love,

Francesca

PS: I’m beginning to suspect one of our current house guests spiked my tea this morning because I also made my first ever makeup tutorial right after I made the video about making my bed. Would you like to see that one, too?

PPS: as you can see from the photo at the top of the page, I also went in the pool today. FOR TEN MINUTES!!!! It was cold! But cryotherapy is brilliant according to that fabulous older lady taking part in Strictly Come Dancing this year, and I put my towelling banana poncho on as soon as I come out. A hot shower, a cup of tea and I’m ready to…?

Actually, I’m not quite sure. Maybe there’s somebody on a social media platform somewhere who might give me some sort of clue?

 

 

 

HOW I MAKE MY BED, WHAT I WEAR, AND BASICALLY A RANDOM DAY IN THE LIFE OF MOI

 

Last night, as I lay under my duvet waiting for my sleep-aid supplement to take effect, I came across an article in The Guardian about a TikTok trend aimed at teaching people how to structure their days. It appears that some people don’t really know what to do when they first wake up, or maybe need a little cutely presented guidance about how they might set up a daily routine. Maybe there are people out there right now, gazing helplessly at their screens, eagerly awaiting instructions from some gorgeous young Influencer who is currently experiencing a glitch on her scheduled publication of how to fold a tea-towel. They’re all loooooosssssstttt (spoken softly, with an added echo, like in that old TV series that was good for a while but never really went anywhere) when it comes to doing…well, anything, apparently!

Which strikes me as kind of cute, really. I think my sister, V, should get in on this trend ASAP because she’s the most organized person I have ever met in my life, and her tea-towel folding skills are off the charts. Actually, all her skills are off the charts. And she has lists about other lists. The woman is phenomenal. Also, she always looks phenomenal. She has four kids, too!

I have no problem at all with people seeking a Mother Hen figure to understand how to organize their day. Clearly, this Tik Tok thing must really be a “thing” because even my mushy old brain remembered it overnight. It’s struck a chord that’s now stuck in my head, pinging a high-pitched note over and over (LAAAAAAA??!!!), and here I am writing about it right after filming myself giving the world a daft Ted Talk about changing our bedsheets. I mean, I’m mega camera shy! So, what on earth came over me?

 

I’m guessing the article spoke to me because I’m also rather random when it comes to daily chores. In fact, I’m quite random in everything I do, really. I’m not an organized person who rolls out of bed upon awakening and flits gracefully into the bathroom, swathed in a pretty silk robe. Are you? Let me know in the comments.

Personally, I need to lie there for a bit in my old white cotton pjs, asking myself whether I slept well, and if I did, was it because I took this sleep aid supplement or that sleep aid supplement, and depending on which one I took, how does my brain feel.

Usually, at this point, the curious part my brain doesn’t quite know how it feels about anything just yet, because it always runs roughly half an hour behind schedule first thing in the morning. When I eventually sit up, reach over to grab the blackout curtain and drag it to one side to see whether it’s another sunny day – which it often is at the moment! We’re in Spain! -  I then move on to checking the operational state of my knees, hips and bumps a daisy, which I’m pleased to report are all doing relatively well these days because my body likes being Spanish. Then I’ll place my feet on the floor and inevitably feel a strange numbness in the sole of my left foot that always disappears after about 8 steps, so I don’t bother about it too much. I’m just mentioning it in case you might have noticed something similar going in with your feet, and if so, it might give us something to discuss in the comments.

I’m feeling no need to describe the next five minutes, because I’m guessing all of us have a similar routine after rolling out of bed, right? Again, feel free to enlighten me in the comments, but I’d appreciate everyone keeping all topics relatively genteel.

Anyway, I’ll then get dressed, often retrieving something I wore the day before that I simply took off as I went to bed and dropped onto my “discarded clothes chair”, which is located in the corner beside my wardrobe. Unless they need washing, my clothes tend to pile up on this chair for a couple of days, and then I’ll have a crisis and put everything away. What do I wear most days? I tend to go for a look that’s relaxed, cute and comfortable. Today I’m wearing jeans with daisies embroidered on them from the knee down. I bought them in Anthropology years ago, and found them on my chair this morning. I’ve paired them with an an old white linen shirt from Zara which I found in my wardrobe, not on my chair. If it’s a tad chilly I’ll just throw a big soft crocheted fringed shawl over my shoulders because I do enjoy rocking a little Stevie Nicks boho-glam vibe, you know what I mean?

Sometimes, if I feel like I’m looking a bit too rough, or my rosacea has been having a disco party overnight, I’ll put on a little makeup before I go down for breakfast, just so I don’t scare away the bunnies, the birdies, my husband or any house guests. But before I can sit down to breakfast I have about twenty minutes worth of supplements to take in order to keep me looking and feeling my best as an untweaked 62-year-old recovering from a neck ligament sprain, two messed up gluteus medius’, funky knees, a wonky right ankle, traces of Lyme disease, an auto-immune disease, as well as a number of other minor boring things stemming from having been active all my life and now bravely venturing into my 6th decade.

Breakfast tends to consist of gluten-free muesli with berries and a massive cup of tea with a good splash of oat milk, whereupon I then move on to far more important things, such as coffee. After breakfast I’ll be heading back upstairs to make the bed, unless my husband beats me to it, which he often does (come to think of it, he would also make the ultimate Organize Your Day TikToker), because chances are I’ll get distracted and gaze out of the window for an hour or so, admiring the leaves falling off the poplar trees at the bottom of the garden, and smiling fondly at the heron strolling across the field beyond (it’s actually a golf course, but I’m not posh, not really, I promise). I’ll turn on my computer and check my website’s analytics for random visits, as well as my KDP for sales of my romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie (LOL!), and then probably scroll for a while, reading about all the terribly upsetting things taking place all over the planet and wondering why a small minority of bad people are allowed to make a large majority of good people’s lives a living hell.

I’ll get depressed for a while and go for a walk, before returning to my desk and wondering how the hell I’m going to move the action forwards in the novel I’m currently working on, because it has so many themes that need layering into the story that it feels a bit like I’m trying to structure a big bowl of cooked spaghetti.

I’ll play with my cooked spaghetti for four or five hours, occasionally glancing out of the window and wondering whether I’m allowed to go and play outside for a while, because this is hard and maybe it’s not really worth doing because so many people write books and everyone is cleverer than me and they’re also now all publishing fabulous prose willy-nilly on Substack, so maybe I should just start making videos about making my bed, or do silly makeup tutorials, but I’m mega shy so I doubt that’s about to become my new creative venture. Today’s video popped out of me randomly, because I’m a random person. I’m a shy free spirit!

And anyway, I love playing with my cooked spaghetti novel.

Which is what I’m going to do now. So, I’ll leave you to enjoy my video about making my bed.

Love,

Francesca

 

PS: I’m beginning to suspect one of our current house guests spiked my tea this morning because I also made my first ever makeup tutorial right after I made the video about making my bed. Would you like to see that one, too?

 

 

 

On Friendship

When I wrote Just Like a Movie I didn’t just set out to write a romance. Sure, I had my Ricky Martin crush thing going on, and Ricky inspired the gorgeous Emilio Caliente, a dream character to write. But I also wrote the book as an ode to some of my best friends. I wanted to give back to some of the women who have had a positive influence in my life, who are always there for me, with whom I never feel judged. These women are precious. They shine for me. They know who they are.

One of my closest friends moved to Ibiza in the 90s, and through her I met many other women who also felt a particular connection with the island. I had these women in the forefront of my mind when I wrote Celeste, Laura and Kirsten in Just Like a Movie. Because of my bond with these women, their book personas had to be fully rounded. They all had had to have their own happy ending.

I had many adventures in Ibiza with my girlfriends over the years, including once being hit on by a British popstar on the roof terrace of a club called The Pink Pussy, which became The Purple Banana in the book (of course it did!). I didn’t like that British popstar, there was nothing Emilio Caliente-ish about him at all, in fact I found him ultra-creepy. Thankfully, when he became a little too sticky, my friend had my back and off he scurried/strutted.

 

Billie, Emilio’s manager, is a real piece of work. She’s a tutti-frutti of all the mean girls/women I’d encountered in my life. Since I have a hard time sticking up for myself in real life, I enjoyed really sticking it to her!

 

Friendships are fragile if not treated with loyalty and kindness, with love and respect. We all have our flaws, our little insecurities, so there are bound to be friendship hiccups and hurdles over the years. I’ve had my fair share of disappointments and misunderstandings, and I know my girlfriends feel the same way towards me. We have our lives, we do our best, but we are who we are. There aren’t many women I feel I can call anytime and speak to about anything. But I have a few, and they mean the world to me.

 

Are you still close with many of your childhood friends? Have most of your friendships withstood the test of time?

Book Review: Mr Wilder and Me, by Jonathan Coe

 

Mr Wilder and Me, written by Jonathan Coe, is a quirky, engaging read about the life of Hollywood film director Billie Wilder. Brimming with humanity, it touches on friendships, the dreams of youth, finding purpose in life, remaining curious, and struggling to remain relevant as we age in a world obsessed with youth. It is about kindness, regret, about coping with hardship without becoming bitter, and finding pleasure in simple things. There is heartbreak and tragedy, and revenge, too, when Wilder, no longer deemed bankable by Hollywood, finally secures German financing to make “Fedora”, a film nobody really believes in. Wilder’s Holocaust survival and Jewish heritage is revisited in the novel.

 Born Austrian, Wilder left Germany for America via France to escape the Nazis, losing track of his mother in the process, a tragedy that haunted him for the rest of his life.

 Billie Wilder’s charisma really shines throughout the novel, with his unique wit showcased by funny quotes and anecdotes backed up in the bibliography at the end of the book.

 The story is narrated by Calista, a Greek woman who is now middle aged, and who revisits her time spent working as an interpreter for Wilder after meeting him by chance over dinner in a restaurant while on holiday in Los Angeles back in 1977, when she was 21.

Over that initial dinner, Wilder and Diamond discuss finalizing the filming of “Fedora”, a movie about an ageing actress living as a recluse on a Greek island. After dinner, they offer Calista a job as an interpreter for the initial period of filming in Greece, but once this part of the production is completed, keep her on for the remainder of the shoot. Calista travels to France, England and Germany, meeting celebrities and film stars, and thanks to her close relationship with Wilder and Diamond, she is privy to all kinds of fascinating conversations. Her insights and observations drive the narrative, her youth giving it a fresh and innocent touch.

 Calista’s own story is lovely too; I enjoyed watching her evolve and pursue her musical dreams, but what I really admired was how the author used Calista’s voice to weave in so much fascinating information about the film industry, while also evoking the tragic backdrop of Wilder’s personal story.

 I loved it.

 What books have you read recently that you would recommend?

#jonathancoewriter

HASTA LA VISTA, UNICORN!

Today is a big day for me. Actually, last Friday was the real big day, but today I got to see the result of what was done on Friday. I also got to finally wash my hair… although I ended up going to the hairdresser after all, but I’m getting ahead of myself because I’m overexcited.

About 12 years ago I bumped my head really hard on the iron bar that goes underneath the horse’s bottom when they’re traveling in a horse trailer. The trailer was empty, but the bar was in place, and I was picking my horse up from a veterinarian clinic after he’d had an operation. I bent down underneath the bar of the trailer to grab my horse’s leg protections, totally misjudged the distance when I stood up, and hit the centre of my forehead really hard. I saw ALL the stars. My forehead split open. There was blood everywhere, and the vet had to take care of me for a good hour before I was in any state to load my horse and embark on the two-hour drive home. To be honest, I probably shouldn’t have driven at all, but I just wanted to get out of there.

Anyway, I made it back with the horse, and developed a huge bruise on my forehead that gradually turned into all those amazing colours that come with all the best bruises. But for some stupid reason, I didn’t see a doctor about it. I guess horsey people tend to take better care of their horses than of themselves…

Over time, the bruise solidified and turned into a calcification. I literally grew a round lump of bony protection right in the centre of my forehead. I joked I was turning into a unicorn. Or a rhinoceros. But on the inside, I wasn’t laughing.

The bump stabilized for a while, but I think I walked into a window at some point, and disturbed the area, and it got bigger, to the point where whenever I looked at myself in the mirror it was all that I could see. I became increasingly self-conscious and hated having my photograph taken. It also hurt if ever I had to lie face-down or lean my forehead against something.

Here is a recent photo of where you can see my bump. Yuck.

Over the years, I asked a few doctors about it, but none had any solutions, apart from scary talk of major plastic surgery. Randomly, about two months ago, I saw a doctor for something totally different, mentioned my bump, and he told me to call doctor so-and-so, who referred me to another doctor who specializes in maxillofacial surgery, who saw me very quickly and told me it was no big deal at all. After all these years of feeling crap about myself!

I had the operation under a general anesthesia last Friday, and the stitches came out this morning. The bump is gone! The scarring is minimal since I only had four stitches! Basically, the surgeon made a small incision, split the calcification, took it out, and then literally polished my skull! The whole procedure was quick and painless; I was out of hospital a few hours later and didn’t even need paracetamol the next day.

I have a tiny STERIStrip to keep it dry for two more days, which is why I had to have my hair washed at the hairdresser (I have bad neck issues and can’t lean over a bath or tilt my head backwards) and am happily channeling a slight Kelly McGillis “Top Gun” vibe, but I can already see and feel that the result is amazing.

 Of course, I’m a little conflicted about writing about this when there is so much horrendous suffering going on in the world right now, but we can’t just shut down and walk on the dark side.

 Maybe my experience can help someone else find a doctor for a similar problem. Also, if you bump your head hard, please see a doctor, because if I had seem one immediately, maybe I wouldn’t have turned into a unicorn/rhinoceros.

 

Inspiration: My WIP

This post is taken from a prompt on social media from my wonderful coach, Nicola Washington @toomuchsocial, as part of a seven day share for authors in the process of writing a book.

Day One :

WHY:

Why are you writing this book?

What is the inspiration that lies behind it?

Was it a moment of inspiration or a slow burn over time?

What is your book’s “origin story”?

This is what I came up with:

******

The inspiration for my WIP has been slowly burning for decades. I’ve been trying to either snuff out the embers or get the fire out of my brain and onto the page for a long time.

I think my grandmother played a great role in the origin of this WIP. Nana was a strong woman, not because she was naturally strong (she was shy, and never wanted to cause any trouble), but because she had no choice. Imagine: she gave birth to my uncle in a Liverpool hospital all alone during an air raid. All the doctors and nurses ran to shelters and left her there in advanced stages of labour while the bombs rained down. While I know it happened to millions of women all over the world, the fact that it happened to my Nana makes the horror of what she endured very vivid.

 Two or three years later, a couple of months before the war ended, her husband was killed when the merchant ship he was stationed on was torpedoed, and my grandmother was left all alone to raise two small children.

 

Nana came from a poor background; all she has was her widow’s pension. But she was clever, and proved to be an astute businesswoman. She worked hard, took impressive risks, developed her own business in retail fashion, and did well.

 

Although her achievements went completely over my head as a child, as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to really admire her strength and resilience.

 I was very close to her, and was with her when she passed away, twenty years ago.

While I’ve been lucky enough not to have to cope with terrible loss and financial difficulty as an adult, I have been affected by trauma experienced by family members and close friends. I’ve witnessed women struggle, trying to keep families afloat, putting up with terrified men dealing with anxieties in all kinds of weird ways. I’ve seen couples try to keep up appearances, hiding shame, hiding mental issues, struggling with guilt. I’ve seen women working all hours, without recognition, to keep families afloat.  

These issues affect me deeply, which is why I struggle to write about them, even in the context of pure fiction.

******

I was amazed by how much insight and clarity doing this exercise brought me.

Have you ever taken part in something that helps you organise your thoughts?

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?