Francesca Bossert's Blog

(and a little bit overweight due to meds 🤭)

This was written for a paid submission for a salon on Substack.

Maybe my troubles began during menopause. Possibly before. I can’t remember being fully pain-free since my late thirties. But life, as I’ve learned, is a series of sliding doors –choices made, actions taken – every choice inevitably sprinkled with accidents, with luck and bad luck.

Still, I believe in magic!

Racing down the home stretch towards 64 (my birthday is November 9th), I look back at all the women I’ve been: the party girl, the traveller, the lover, the mother, the showjumper, the dressage rider, the Pilates queen, the novelist, the bag maker, the silk painter, the glass painter, the knitter, the crochet addict, the poet. How lucky am I to have experienced so many different Francescas, even if the current me has been ill for many years, leaving me housebound for a good part of the last three.

I always loved being outdoors. I am passionate about horses and have been lucky enough to have horses of my own for the past thirty-five years. Not only did I ride, but I organized dressage clinics at the yard where I kept my horses, helped organize national dressage competitions, and attended dozens of international horse shows. I lived and breathed horses.

But gradually, my body began to whisper, slow down. My hips and knees became crispy, aching.

I ignored them. I found ways around the pain, worked around the injuries. I limped, padded, soldiered on. My horse saw the vet at the slightest niggle. Me?! I hurt, but no biggie.

One day, my body pulled the handbrake. I was walking beside my younger horse, when, suddenly, I couldn’t take another step.

I saw many jaded doctors who prescribed long-term mega-doses of anti-inflammatories that barely touched my pain.

Eventually, my intestines staged a rebellion. I was diagnosed with an incurable inflammatory bowel disease, followed by, two years later, fibromyalgia.

My world felt like it had been put in the washing machine on the wrong setting and shrunk to a size that no longer fit. I lost my equestrian world, my social life, my freedom.

My intestines are so temperamental I can barely leave the house. My body aches. I feel tired all the time. And yet, almost exasperatingly, I look fine. How can I be so sick yet look well?

Maybe I look well because I am magic!

I’m resourceful, creative, able to access all the previous versions of myself. My curiosity pushes me to seek joy in other places and share it.

 Writing has crept back into my life. Decades ago, while recovering from two consecutive accidents, I wrote a romantic comedy, initially published as Mucho Caliente. I got my rights back, worked on edits, then self-published it as Just Like A Movie. The editing process brought me joy, but when I began working on another novel, fear of taking on such a huge project thwarted my progress.

Then, randomly, poetry happened.

In February 2024, I joined a seasonal tiny poem challenge on Substack. My first prompt was “wolf.”  

That little poem about my fear of writing opened the floodgates. Once I began writing poems, I couldn’t stop. When the prompts ended, I made up my own, writing multiple poems a day, sharing them online. I became obsessed with reading poetry, discovering famous and not-so-famous poets. The postman brought me poetry books at least once a week!

The more poems I wrote, the more I wanted to write. Poetry became my sustenance, my ticket to anywhere when my world was confined to the walls of my home. My confidence grew, my mental health improved. I rediscovered the joy of playing with words, using poetry to showcase my sense of humour, and enjoyed sharing my daily (mostly) joyful offerings with the world.

In April 2025, I published Illicit Croissants at Dawn, a selection of close to a hundred poems written between April 2024 and January 2025. My daughter, Olivia Bossert, a fashion photographer and artist living in England, designed the cover and did some illustrations. Collaborating with Olivia felt like the ultimate gift!

Although I still miss the daily rituals with my horse, not to mention my social life, I’ve managed to move on. I continue to write poetry and I’m compiling a second book. Despite having always been terrified of public speaking, I began filming myself reading my poetry, posting my videos online, and even did a short public reading during the summer – having taken cortisone to ensure a few days of respite from my intestinal issues. I enjoyed the experience so much I could have read the entire book!

While becoming ill has taken so much from me, including – for now – my freedom, it reconnected me with my creativity and introduced me to wonderful people all over the world, some I now consider friends. I’ve learned patience, resilience, worked on my fears and insecurities, and discovered how to do all sorts of online technical things (although I rely on my son or daughter when I’m really stumped!).

In the last few weeks, new medical treatments offer me glimpses of hope; even if my IBD is incurable, when my team of doctors find the right combination of drugs it will become manageable. And while my daily routine remains monotonous and my outings mostly restricted to trips to the doctor or the pharmacy, my imagination is in full bloom!

Nobody expects life to play nasty tricks on them. As a sociable, active person, when illness tripped me up I never imagined it would be quite so relentless. But I count my blessings; Microscopic collagenous Colitis is horrible, but it isn’t life-threatening. I have a wonderful family, a beautiful home in Switzerland and another one in Spain. I have found a team of excellent doctors. I love writing, I love making things, and I love sharing my creativity with people all over the world.

As I step into my third act, I feel incredibly lucky – even a little bit magical. And maybe I am!

I woke up at 4.30 (again) so I wrote a poem and made a collage!

I read a thing about

how we’re all in the matrix,

so I bought some dahlias

for my own, personal 

mini-matrix.

I placed a laughing Buddha beneath the vase,

and had a few words.

See,

while I understand that times are tough –

and, therefore, cuts and restrictions,

and absolutely no more

pennies for the poor,

nevertheless –

and oh so frightfully selfishly –

I would enjoy a little passeggiata beyond my front door.

Because I do not wear an electronic tag,

and the only thing I ever stole from

was a Mars bar in the school

cafeteria in 10th grade

because the line was insane (chips day!),

and Caroline was waiting.

So…

can I get an upgrade?

Also,

I’ve never seen

The Matrix.

Keanu imagine?

🎸🌿🎸

Ooh, and there’s a new(ish) Ricky song out today (it’s an old song, redone). The video looks a bit odd, but what do I know? I love the song though, and sing it in the shower all the time!

Do you remember when we were pretty

But mirrors were cruel?

When our topography snubbed our feet,

just as the anointed snubbed us in school cafeterias.

When a blemish foretold public mortification

amid fervent supplications to the gods of flawless skin.

Do you remember when we were pretty,

But clumsy and clueless?

When friendships

formed, blossomed,

curdled, dissolved,

only to blossom again,

scarred

by the claws of hurt and mistrust –

tiny heart-tattoos of baggage.

Do you remember when we were pretty

and we fell in love

and out of love

and crushed and soared and crashed and splintered?

How we rose again,

inebriated with love and lust,

reckless, ruthless, ridiculous, oblivious.

Do you remember when we were pretty,

How we dashed towards immortality?

When possibilities were sliding doors

we pranced through on a whim,

our choices irrational

but heady and heart-driven?

How life returned the lucky among us to sender,

When mouthfuls of lemons

Sent us skedaddling.

Do you remember when we were pretty –

Oh, so very, very pretty! –

Now that our feet beckon our topography,

and time bolts towards eternity?

I hope, now, that we soften,

strive to let the inconsequential go.

I hope

joy sunshines your days.

I hope

love lingers, caressed by grace.

I hope

friendships endure the gripes and misunderstandings.

And, perhaps most of all,

I hope

health swathes you in velvet blessings.

Hello everyone,

Ufff, I’m not feeling like going out dancing, that’s for sure ! I’ve had tests done this week because I’ve been horribly ill, but at first glance nothing really (!) to report. However, I do have to wait for the results of the biopsies which should be in early next week. I see my doctor next Thursday so I may have to wait until then. Which isn’t too bad, as I’m not concerned. I just want my life back. Or even just half my life back! I’d even take one good day a week.

Anyway. C’est la vie. I have a beautiful cosy house, and I’ve lit the fire and it’s roaring away because the wood is nice and dry. There’s banana bread baking in the oven, and Miss Badu (our cat) is curled up like a little white shell. I’ve been doing some crochet, I’ve had a bath and a snooze, and this morning my son and I watched the fox chilling in the horse paddocks next door, while the three resident horses grazed contentedly. It was magical, reminding me of that lovely illustrated books with the boy and the white horse and the fox. Do you know the one I mean?

This fox - well, we assume it’s the same one - used to come and sit with us while we ate dinner on the terrace two summers ago! He’d come incredibly close and lie down and watch us. I have some amazing video footage of him that I’ll try and find to show you. I never got close enough (or brave/mad enough to try and stroke him) but he literally lay 2 metres away, very relaxed, and ever so beautiful.

I wanted to video myself reading a poem, but I look semi-dead, so I tried another variation which I think turned out quite nicely. It fits this poem, too. It’s not a new poem, but it’s one of my favourites. It’s called, Nothing, Really. I hope you enjoy it.

And here is a little video of the fox!

Isn’t he gorgeous?! Amazing!

Have a lovely evening,

With love and gratitude,

Francesca xx

She leaves fur on my keyboard,

Tiny tufts of ephemeral love,

Feline gifts that flutter

In the breaths of my impatience.

Slow your mind, change your perspective,

Feel the love.

When I am well, I shall wear cowboy boots and long, floaty dresses, with chunky sweaters layered over the top when the autumn chill blows in.

I’ll team these with cotton — or maybe even cashmere — tights, because nylons give you fishy fanny, and as for stockings? One word: cellulite.

Of course, I’ll wear jeans too — loose, boot-cut Levi’s 501s or Farrah Fawcett flares, with T-shirts or embroidered peasant blouses. I picture a cape as well — something wide and soft and luxe that I can toss over my shoulder with panache, to keep my neck warm when the cold wind blows.

By the time I am well, my hair will be incredibly long. I’ll wear it in a messy up-do to keep it off my neck, which I try not to feel bad about, because even saggy necks are beautiful.

Say it.

Believe it.

Oh, fuck it. Saggy necks kind of suck.

Anyway, I’ll take my floaty, cosy, saggy-necked-yet-beautiful — and most importantly, very healthy — self to art exhibitions wearing bright red lipstick, where I shall smile knowingly at the work exhibited, or quizzically tilt my head while nonchalantly teasing a glass of champagne.

I’ll go to bookstores too, trundling my nifty little polka-dotted trolley, because books are heavy and I can never resist buying far too many. I’ll buy novels and cookbooks and — ooh! — books on home décor and gardens.

And when I get home, my husband will look through them, pick one up and say,
“But don’t you already have this book about cottage gardens?”
And I’ll reply, possibly a little testily,
“I’ll have you know that this is Arabellah Gherkin-Devine’s new book on cottage gardens,”
and flounce past him into the living room where I’ll light a fire and curl up with my glossy stash and a mug of tea.

Of course, I’ll then be struck with all sorts of wild ideas, and dream of swapping our minimalist, Scandi kitchen for seaside cosy-clutter chic, complete with duck-blue Aga.

I’ll want to trade all the ecru curtains for something with a little more oomph, and wallpaper the bedrooms, and — mais bien sûr! — dig up a good part of the garden to create a pond-slash-natural swimming pool.

Because how dreamy would that be to swim in?

When I am well, I shall have a gentle-mannered Cavalier King Charles, soft as butter, who will gaze at me with golden googly eyes, certain I’m the most beautiful woman in the universe, even as I pluck whiskers from my chin. Together we’ll go for gentle walks down country lanes, picking wildflowers and talking to the cows.

When I am well, my husband and I will once more become spontaneous.
We’ll go to restaurants with friends.
Attend parties, where I’ll no longer simply gaze longingly at those scrumptious grazing tables, wishing there was something for me.

We’ll take trips to Venice and Copenhagen, to Amsterdam and Rome.
We’ll go to the theatre, to concerts, and to the cinema.

When I am well, I might wear cowboy boots, and loose, floaty dresses, and get funky at exhibitions and bookshops and do all the rest of that wild and wacky jazz.

But most importantly —

When I am well,
I shall begin
To live again.

Chaos au château de Windsor la nuit dernière, après que Donald Trump aurait tenté de s’introduire en douce dans la chambre royale pendant que le roi Charles prenait son bain.

Camilla a été aperçue fuyant à toute allure dans les couloirs du château, vêtue d’une chemise de nuit vintage Laura Ashley bleu canard et blanc, bigoudis vissés sur la tête, tandis que Donald trottinait derrière, vêtu d’un caleçon rouge satin Make America Great Again, et rien d’autre.

Oh my God! Charles surgit rouge et ruisselant, appelant aussitôt la garde royale, qui a escorté Donald jusqu’aux cachots. Il y a été enfermé avec un seau, une couverture en laine Shetland mega gratouille, et un exemplaire de Crime et Châtiment de Dostoïevski. Des témoins affirment l’avoir entendu plus tard siffler “Oops!... I Did It Again”.

Camilla et Melania ont été vues déambulant sur les remparts du château, en pleine conversation animée. Camilla aurait jeté un petit objet métallique dans les douves, provoquant des applaudissements ravis de Melania. Les deux femmes auraient ensuite dansé au clair de lune sur “Single Ladies”.

La presse surnomme désormais Camilla « celle qui lui a filé entre les doigts ».

Caroline Levitt devait tenir une conférence de presse dans l’après-midi, mais aurait finalement démissionné pour partir avec le frère cadet du cousin de Jimmy Kimmel.

Pam Bondi, de son côté, a refusé de commenter.

Bedlam at Windsor Castle last night after Donald Trump allegedly attempted to sneak into the Royal bedchamber while King Charles was in the bath.

Camilla was seen fleeing through the royal hallways in a vintage duck-blue and white flannel Laura Ashley nightie and curlers, with Donald in doddery pursuit - wearing nothing but his Make America Great Again red satin boxers.

Ructions ensued. Charles had a fit, summoning the royal guards who escorted Donald to the dungeons, where he was locked in a cell with a bucket and a very itchy, old Shetland wool blanket, and a copy of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Donald was later heard whistling “Oops!... I Did It Again.”

Camilla and Melania were spotted strolling the castle ramparts, talking animatedly. Camilla tossed something small and metallic into the moat below, whereupon Melania clapped with delight. The two were seen dancing in the moonlight to “All The Single Ladies.”

The press is calling Camilla “the one who got away.”

Caroline Levitt was initially expected to hold a press conference in the early afternoon, but has since resigned from her post and run off with Jimmy Kimmel’s second cousin’s younger brother.

Pam Bondi has declined to comment.

Oh, to be a drunken sailors today,

With the wind in our sails,

Whisking from one scrumptious endeavour

To the next!

We might start with breakfast

At the fabulous bakery on the water

Where they make cinnamon buns!

We’d bring our books, or a magazine —

Or maybe not,

because it might be nice to

Simply chat, right?

And obviously checking our phones

Would be never in a million years, Sauvage!

We’d give the contents of our tummies

plenty of time to

boogie on down

with a sprightly stroll

to wherever our hearts might lead us.

Which is — get this! —

Into a craft shop

Where we’d browse

watercolours in enchanting colours,

And caress exquisite paper from Japan.

You might spill turquoise and silver

Sparkles on your jeans,

Because you got a little too impatient

Trying to open the samples,

But the lady at the counter would say:

Oh, mais c’est pas grave ! or

non preoccuparti !

It happens all the time!

We’d sail on home,

Still blobby from our coffee

and cinnamon buns,

and some sneaky pains au chocolat.

I might do a little crochet -

Because, seriously,

this bedcover needs to get done -

While you work on your bestselling novel

(Or maybe a crossword,

If crosswords tickle your fancy).

We’d break for a late lunch,

Hoist our biggest, fattest sail and whizz across the water

To the little restaurant with the navy-blue cloths and white napkins,

Where the waiters are always happy to see us

And their limoncello sorbet

Makes our toes curl in ecstasy!

Of course, by the time we zig-zagged back to port

It would be siesta time

In a spot Goldilocks would definitely approve of.

Afterwards?

Might I suggest an Aperol Spritz

To match the sunset

And a salad with mango and avocado,

A sprinkle of cilantro,

With just a hint of chilli heat?

And you, amor, you shine!

Did you know

You shine

Just as brightly as

The person you worship?

And that if what once felt

Like the splinter of a chicken bone

Lodged in your throat

Has petridished into

A whopper straight out of

Jurassic Park,

Then sweetie,

You’ve been

Circling the altar on your knees

For far too long.

Up you get.

Bin the bunting,

The banners,

The balloons.

Grab two handfuls of confetti,

Toss them high

And twirl in the spotlight

Like the heroine

Of your own damn movie.