Francesca Bossert's Blog

Wonder Woman’s put on weight,

She’s no longer a trim size eight.

Her Wonderbra no longer fits,

It’s far too small for her lush tits!

Her thigh gap’s now a friendly smush

of blubberlicious jiggly stuff.

And that once-tight, heroic tush?

She’s let it grow, just like her bush!

Wonder Woman doesn’t care,

She loves her comfy underwear.

She’s done with squeezing into tights

To rescue strangers, day and night.

Wonder Woman beckons you –

Let go, let live, let you shine through.

Choose softness, truth, humanity –

Her dearest wish, her legacy.

This Christmas, give books!

Good morning!

Over dinner last night, my husband said he’ll be happy to see the end of 2025, because it’s been such a bad year. “For you, especially,” he said, taking a sip of his red wine. “You’ve had such a terrible time with your health.”

For a second, I was taken aback, because I don’t think of 2025 as a bad year. Which is weird, really, because in many respects it truly has been pretty horrendous. I’ve hardly left the house, my IBD has been relentless, with fibromyalgia adding its own brand of extra crunch to the mix. I’ve had far more blood tests than chocolate biscuits. I’ve had three medical procedures under anaesthesia. I’ve had to face the fear of taking scary medications – one that failed, and another that I’ve just recently started. I’ve probably seen more doctors than friends – which actually really does suck!

But despite all the unpleasantness, 2025 has been exciting and pretty amazing, creatively speaking. I published my first collection of poetry in April, and have another one ready for 2026. I have a poem coming out in a children’s book at the end of the year. I’ve written something almost every single day. I finally finished a crochet king-size bedcover. I’ve started a big, cozy shawl. I began painting again after decades. 

Here’s a little Christmas card I painted yesterday!

I’ve even begun work on a brand-new romantic comedy, and it’s giving me all the warm fizzy-fuzzies, so I’ve put the previous novel on pause. It’s having a rest, waiting to be woken up with a kiss whenever I’m ready.

Stranger still is that I’ve accepted the fact that I’m chronically ill. I roll with the blows far more serenely than my poor parents, who worry constantly, and seem to sometimes forget that autoimmune illness is forever, not just for a while, and that medication for my particular illness is largely hit and miss. Symptoms come and go, medication strives to manage them, but there is no cure. Plans need to remain limber.

I felt so sorry for my poor husband when, recently, I was in such pain that I didn’t know where to put myself. He paced up and down the bedroom, upset, aghast, but there was nothing he could do apart from bring a hot water bottle and a warm drink. I’d feel the same if he was the one suffering. I’m glad that he can escape, go running, biking, play golf with his friends. I’m never unhappy on my own. Even on the worst days, when I’m stuck between the bed and the bathroom, I read, write or listen to audiobooks. I trust it will pass. Currently, it has, so I make the most of feeling fine.

Do I worry about my health? Not really. Not anymore. Not now that I know what’s wrong, and what we can do to control it. It’s not life-threatening, it’s just social-life threatening. Actually, this year, it’s been social-life obliterating! Mostly, I worry more about those I love worrying too much about me.

I’m glad my husband brought this up, because he made me mull over how I really feel about 2025, and realise that it gave me far more than it took away, which is a privilege I’m aware not everyone has been afforded this year.

How about you? How has your year been? Do you have any plans for next year? 

With love and gratitude,

Francesca

(I feel a little more human than I did yesterday, when I wrote this poem. Also, the red helps!)

If you come looking for me,

know that I am neither here,

nor there.

Today I loll,

patiently, graciously,

my lights blinking in the holding pattern,

and thankful

to even be in the holding pattern at all!

However, when I’m finally cleared for take-off,

I’m counting on a little more livin’ la vida loca,

And painting every place I land

All the colours of fabulous.

While the planets

attempt to line up my ducks

like cosmic interns,

and the new moon

in Scorpio

blows my crown chakra

to the sparkly side of Beyondo,

something else –

explained in a medical jargon

reminiscent of a political movement –

keeps me kerplunked.

But hi yo, Silver (lining)!

Monday’s sunrise will catch

Mercury flirting with Venus,

which heralds wonders

for my date with the anti-TNFs.

Venceremos!

NEED A SPECIAL PRESENT FOR SOMEONE YOU LOVE? I HAVE SIGNED COPIES OF MY POETRY BOOK, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN AVAILABLE. Contact me at balcabooks@gmail.com

The village is buzzing,

TV people are coming,

yet no-one’s nipping up to the moon.

What we’ll shoot is much cuter,

winked the balding producer,

then turned back to his camera crew.

The auberge is booked up,

they’ve brought all sorts of stuff

just to film by the light of the moon.

This is unprecedented,

just so utterly splendid,

the man gushed, as the bustle resumed.

This level of fervour

is so far unheard of

for fowl dancing under the moon.

Yes, you read that quite right,

they let loose when it’s bright

at the Cute Chickadees’ Last Saloon.

An owl sets the mood

in a tree near the coop,

as he hoots by the light of the moon.

This nocturnal MC –

a Carl Cox devotee –

is the bees’ knees in fowl pleasing tunes.

The hens are a-grooving,

the cocks cockadoodling

as they rock by the light of the moon.

The turkey is sloshed,

his girlfriend’s in a strop,

he’ll be nuggets –

that stewed dude is doomed!

Now some rude paparazzi

have gate-crashed the party,

tickled pink by the light of the moon.

The owl is twit-twooing,

every bonbon is moving,

in a dazzling feathery swoon.

By dawn it’s a wrap,

and the trucks are all packed –

the sun’s stolen the light of the moon.

But tonight, we’ll all cheer

In front of our TVs

As the owl’s rhythmic hooting resumes.

I have several signed copies of my poetry book, Illicit Croissants At Dawn available. It would make a wonderful Christmas gift! Contact me at Francesca.bossert@gmail.com

My diluted world

Expands endlessly

In the labyrinth of my mind.

Funny how, most days, it is enough.

I’ve fallen in love with painting again! And my husband is going to giggle and say I’m so extreme – but I am, and that’s why he loves me – or one of the reasons, because I’m mega-multi-talented and faceted, which is just as well because I’m also mega-sick, and the poor man has been looking after me for three years now. Just as well he’d gone grey before, or I’d have blamed myself. Because, you know – mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa!

 I’m working on it…

Some of you may know that poetry has been my mental lifesaver these past two years; I fell into it utterly randomly, and it took just one little poem called Wolf, written from a prompt, for all my fear of the blank page to disintegrate and for words to start pouring out. I published my first poetry book, Illicit Croissants At Dawn, in April this year, and my second poetry book will be published in 2026. Meanwhile, I keep on writing poetry, keep meaning to work on my novel, and then a poem wants to be written RIGHT NOW, or my crochet project demands attention (I’m making a lovely fluffy off-white shawl, the wool is fabulous to work with). In between, I need to sleep, and nap when my body insists, and visit my lovely doctors. I started a new immunosuppressant treatment last Monday as the previous one didn’t work – the first few days were rough, but my body seems to be settling now. Next infusion in a week, then the third loading dose just before Christmas, ho ho ho. After that it will be every two months. I pray this new one works… I’m craving freedom, and some fun away from the house!!!

Enter a sudden renewal of interest in painting, courtesy of a moment of scrolling on Instagram a few weeks ago. I came across someone using teabags to make art. They simply dunked the teabag in water, then set it on watercolour paper and let it sit there for a while, until a stain formed. They removed the teabag, let the paper dry, and then looked for something concrete in the shape.

Of course, the person doing this was incredibly skilled, and did beautiful work, with incredible rabbits, squirrels, and intricate birds. Nevertheless, I was intrigued and thought I’d give it a try. I made four tea stains, let them dry, and then went about my business for a few days, not quite forgetting about them, but not overly obsessed either. A week or so later I drew a little bird from one stain and painted it. I was happy with how it came out – I painted it for fun – and creating things for fun has become my creativity motto to avoid freaking out, trying to be too perfect, freezing, and then feeling like a failure. I felt my little bird had its own fun personality.

I didn’t touch the other stains for a few weeks, until yesterday morning, when I was feeling a little frayed around the edges because of all the pain I’ve been through these past few weeks, and felt worried about the pain never going away, and what would I do _ omg omg omg. So I went to my office/studio, sat down to write something, but felt pulled towards my craft table instead. I cut out another stain, saw a fish shape, and got a little funky with colour, losing myself for an hour or so, dipping in and out of my little watercolour palette, using my coloured pencils, and generally having a lovely time.

So much so that I returned to my craft table today, cut out another shape, and found a queen! The Queen of the Teabags now is fully formed, feeling quite smug about her outfit of the day, and heading out for a potter around Teabag Manor to feed the Teabirds and the Teafish…

As for me, I’m going to grab a few more teabags and set them on watercolour paper. Teabag poetry illustrations? Why not!

What do you lean into to calm your nervous system when you’re feeling wound up? Do you make something, or go for a run, or go and sit in the car and let out a rebel yell? Tell me in the comments!

 Thank you for reading,

 Lots of love from a very dark and rainy day in Switzerland,

Francesca xx

There’s a hum in the air today –

have you noticed?

Ideas flutter like postcards

from a future so bright

we’re going to need tinted windows!

Get up!

Prepare a huge batch of Optimism Stew.

Flavour with Elixir of Possibilities,

add a giggle of Oh-My-God-YES,

a large scoop of Second Chances,

three tablespoons of Daydreams,

a splash of Excitement,

a pinch of Perseverance,

a dash of Divine Timing,

and a giant dollop of Elbow Grease.

Stir well.

Season with Sparkles to taste,

and watch the steam rise

like a long-held breath finally released.

Turn down the heat

and simmer with Patience.

You’ll know it’s ready

when you start singing with the spoon,

and bubbles of laughter form around the edges.

Glaze with Joy,

stir in Glitter Croutons,

and swirls of Love.

Serve warm with a side of Grace Potatoes,

And a Serene Salad.

Enjoy with “Notes of Optimism, Chateau Pièce-Balca,1961 – Full-bodied, with hints of humour, compassion and courage. Slightly aged, beautifully bold, certified organic. Undertones of mischief and Mediterranean sunshine. Pairs well with second chances. Also available alcohol-free.

You don’t need a permission slip,

or a majestic diploma

tied up in ribbons

and handed to you

by a jaded man

in a crumpled suit.

Listen to your cravings.

Step into your colours.

You may have a ball of wool

tucked away,

calling you,

waiting to be turned into something cozy.

Does the thick pad of watercolour paper,

forlorn in some bottom drawer,

keep beckoning?  –

a gift from someone wishing you well,

someone who remembered the joy you once felt

with a paintbrush and watercolours

before whatever happened, happened.

Write something.

Let your thoughts flow,

jumbled, messy, ugly, wild.

Pick a word – any word –

and write a poem in ten minutes.

Set fear aside and jump into

you.

There is no right or wrong way.

There are no rules.

There is only your intuition,

your sensitivities,

likes and dislikes.

Set yourself free through creativity.

Open your floodgates to joy.

You must try Canva,

they enthuse.

So you venture in

wearing your big-girl

(old-lady) knickers,

flashing your credit card,

going Pro.

You’ve got this!

Watch me go!

 Soon your neurones

give you hot flashes,

the templates

misbehave

and your images go

haywire –

flashing

cheesy graphics.

The fonts don’t work;

they just make everything

messy.

You light a candle,

take a deep breath,

invoking your beloved yogi –

the eminent

Namastanley.

You delete, you download,

you press random keys –

Command FFS,

Control WTF,

hoping for success.

Namastanley levitates

in horror,

farts on your candle

and buggers off.

You find a calm ribbon of breath,

and sit quietly

among the ashes of ambition,

watching smoke curl

like self-esteem.