HOW ON EARTH: THE NIGHT I DANCED WITH DAVID BOWIE

I had an inkling someone was coming to visit me. Whenever special visitors are on their way, I get light-headed, giddy-bellied, and my face tickles with the promise of imminent fun.

Yet while my last few visitors had sent celestial emails, today’s visitor has been extra mysterious, resulting in my mouth twitching like it’s struggling to hold back a smile.

Restless, I kept getting up and going to stand in the spot by the swimming pool between the oleanders and the multicoloured, determined Gauras self-seeding like they absolutely must hide us from nosey golfers before the end of the month.

But nothing. Just a pair of pot-bellied men desperately seeking their balls in the reeds by the pond. Their quest was hopeless; I’d heard two distinctive plops.

I was about to turn around to go and make myself an elderflower cocktail – tonic water and elderflower cordial, an absolute delight in hot weather – when I saw him walking towards me, wearing a semi-tucked pink linen shirt and wide-legged ivory trousers.

Tan loafers, Ray Ban aviators with blue lenses.

The epitome of relaxed elegance, of confident cool.

Francesca: David Bowie! Welcome to How on Earth!

David sat down on my blue-grey outdoor sofa, took off his glasses and practically floored me with his mismatched, other-worldly eyes.

David: I bet you expected a far more grandiose entrance, especially after all the drama with dragons these last few weeks (mischievous wink).

Francesca: (giggling) Are you blacklisted with Gaudi?

David: Pff! I’m hot enough without romantasy props. (chuckles) But don’t tell Freddie.

Francesca: Now you sound like my Meanies poem!

David: (cocking an eyebrow) Let’s not pretend I don’t know which meanie inspired that one.

Francesca: (blushing) Shit, do you think she knows?

David: You’ve always been an open book, my dear. But no, she doesn’t. Then again, few have your level of sensitivity (leaning in conspiratorially). It’s a superpower, anyway, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

Francesca: Speaking of open books, tell me about writing ‘Under Pressure’ with Freddie Mercury. There are so many different versions of what happened, so I’d like to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

David: (running a hand through his spiky blonde hair) Uff… I’d like to say all it took was a brilliant bass line and a bit of strutting up and down. How long have we got? And how much trouble shall we make?

Francesca: (blanching) Oh, I’m too sensitive for big trouble.

David: Let’s just say that my ideas were a little too bland for Freddie, who wanted more of everything. And I mean everything! (grimacing and shaking his wrist) The other members of Queen tried to act as bumpers, but they found us rather entertaining.

Francesca: who had the last word?

David: The song did, obviously. You’re a writer, so you know how it is; our creations take on a life of their own.

Francesca: The good ones do.

David: But you’ve always preferred ‘Let’s Dance’, haven’t you. I remember us dancing to it in that disco in Florence.

Francesca: What?!

David: Don’t be dense! You were there. With me. We kept on pestering the DJ to play it again, and the poor boy was so starstruck he couldn’t say no. What a fun night that was. I remember what you were wearing. In fact, this pink shirt is the exact same shade as those tight trousers you were wearing. With your black boat-necked sweatshirt falling off one shoulder, and the black studded belt slung three times around your hips. And black suede ankle boots, with the studded dog collar wrapped around one of your black ankle boots.

Francesca: (blown away) Crikey, I’ve just realised why I had my hair cut all short and spiky.

David: (snorting with laughter) Really, love? It’s taken you forty-four years to figure out it was me?

Francesca: But I was never a big Bowie fan. Not like my friend Valerie.

David: Valerie! Bless her! She’s cool, and still listens to all my albums. Unlike some people. (sitting back, cocking a supercilious eyebrow, teasing me). You’ve always been my friend, not my fan. But don’t change the subject; we’re still talking about Florence, where Piazza Santo Spirito has had quite the glow-up in the last few years. I bet your old grotty apartment is super-fancy now.

Francesca: (mouth drops open) You were… in my apartment?

David: (sighing, shaking his head slowly, raspberrying his lips)

Francesca: (expression of snarky disbelief)  Where was it, exactly?

David: Your room was on the corner of the building, with two windows. One looked out onto the sidestreet and onto the church and church steps, whereas the other had a view over the square. There was the caserna opposite, where you and your friend Helène used to watch the handsome soldiers in their fancy uniforms. Of course, the church bell drove you mad, donging grandly every fifteen minutes. There was a bar just below your flat where the sulkiest waitress in the world played the same The Cure’s Seventeen Seconds album over and over, with a preference for track seven: A Forest.

Francesca: Holy…! I don’t understand. But…yes…that bloody bell! And the gorgeous soldiers! And Seventeen Seconds! Whenever I hear that album, I’m back in Florence in 1981. In fact, A Forest is one of my favourite songs ever. And I remember that miserable waitress. Such a sulky sod! I never had coffee there.

David: You went to Massimo’s pizzeria instead. In the middle of the square.

Francesca: No way… now I’ve got goosebumps. How do you know all this?

David: Darling, that dream wasn’t a dream. We were on what we call the Ethereal Frequency. And it’s also thanks to the Ethereal Frequency that I saved your cute little bottom from big bad Massimo, aka the Man Who Revved Too Much. Remember that day he wanted to take you out on his Motoguzzi? He wasn’t just after your witty conversation, darling, so I sent Major Tom’s Space Elves to sabotage the bike.

Francesca: No way! That was you?

David: Well, the Space Elves. But me, indirectly, yes. Massimo was such a lecherous old bastard, absolutely dying to get into your knickers, but of course you were totally oblivious (he rolls his eyes). Also, Massimo’s highest ambition was to own a pizzeria. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but you, my darling were made for greater things.

Francesca: Puh-lease, I didn’t want to marry the man, and the last thing I wanted was for him to get into my knickers. Eww! I just wanted to go for a ride on a big motorbike. That other boy who worked in the bank had one, too…

David: Maurizio. He cashed your travellers cheques. Lovely man. Polite. Respectful. He looked after you. But he did have a little crush…

Francesca: What the heck? Were you MI5 or something, as well as a pop star?

David: Honestly, darling. Please use the correct terminology. I am an artist, not a pop star. And no. Just a first class user of the Ethereal Frequency, like yourself.

Francesca: So that’s why I have so many lovely vivid dreams that I remember for years.

David: Your Ricky Martin dreams are famous where I’ve come from.

Francesca: (covering my face with my hands) Oh God! Really? I do love him dearly. Anyway, what’s wrong with being a pop star? And surely Let’s Dance is a pop song. So is Under Pressure. And that other one you did with Mick Jagger?

David: Dancing In The Street was for Live Aid. And if you ever meet Mick, whatever you do, don’t call him a pop star!

Francesca: Thanks for the tip! I met his daughter Jade a few times.

David: Yes, in Ibiza. She stole your shrimp at that expensive beach restaurant, Es Xarcu.

Francesca: She did. And then there was that other time, at Space, when she kept on touching my diamond bracelet when we were dancing. In fact, you wouldn’t happen to know what happened to my diamond bracelet? It disappeared when we moved house in…

David: In 2003. Your tennis bracelet. You left it lying around. It’s in Kosovo now. One of the removal men’s wives wears it with pride.

Francesca: I bet she does. Any chance you could send get Major Tom to send a Space Elf to retrieve it.

David: We’re not affiliated with FedEx, you know.

Francesca: Yeah, I guess not (Sighing). I did love that bracelet.

David: Then you shouldn’t have left it lying around, should you! You still don’t tidy up after yourself much. Lucky you have that Swiss husband to keep things all…

Francesca: Swiss-shape!

David: (deadpan) Lol.

Francesca: Sorry, couldn’t resist. But yeah, I’m lucky. So very lucky. But normally these interviews are about my guest, and instead I find myself being interrogated. What’s going on?

David: All you need to do is ask.

Francesca: If I can get a word in edgeways. I imagined you were the strong silent type. Well, maybe not strong. The elegantly lithe silent type. Were you?

David: If you want to discuss philosophy I’m quite happy to do so. Nietzsche, darling? The occult? Not really your thing, though is it! Which is fine. I’m really enjoying our funky chat.

Francesca: But I should ask you about Ziggy Stardust. And those funny clingy outfits.

David: (Laughing) You never liked those. Too weird for you.

Francesca: (Wrinkling my nose) Not your best look, frankly. You look far more elegant now.

David: (instantly morphing into Ziggy Stardust in an orange onesie.) Not your cup of tea?

Francesca: I’d wear it to an Abba revival…

David: (bursts out laughing) Sometimes you’re far too spontaneous for your own good.

Francesca: (Cringing) Tell me about it.

David: Well, I could, but I’m not sure your readers need to know all the embarrassing details. Need I remind you that you have a book coming out next year, so best not to spill too much upfront, darling.

Francesca: (frowning) I’m not sure what sort of potential spillage you’re thinking of.

David: (Hiking the eyebrow above his dark eye) I don’t believe you.

Francesca: I don’t believe myself, either. ‘Nuff said, as we say.

David: For now.

Francesca: Can you please change back to your 80s era now? I want to take a photo of us together and your orange polyester suit clashes with my floral dress.

David: It’s silk, darling. (rolling his mismatched eyes) Honestly!

Francesca: Of course it is. Sorry. Now please change back.

David: (wearing his ivory trousers and pink linen shirt, which he is carefully smoothing) Better?

Francesca: Much. (Going to sit next to him and switching my phone to take a Selfie)

David: I’m not sure it will work, to be honest. The Ethereal Frequency can be a little stuffy about taking photos. But you’ll remember this moment. You always do.

Francesca: (Taking the photo) Oh, I so hope it works! If it doesn’t, people will think I’m slightly Looney Tunes.

David: Many already do, darling. But I love Looney Tunes.

Francesca: (smiling at the photo in my camera) Look! It worked!

David: (Smiling kindly and giving me a kiss on the cheek) It did because you’re the one looking at it.

David Bowie stood up, put his Ray Ban aviators back on, offered me a hand, and together we strolled through the garden, where he admired my oleanders, suddenly blooming in perfect pink and white force. He gave me another kiss on the cheek, and said “May the Ethereal Frequency be with you always, darling. It’s such fun, isn’t it!”

And with that, he swooshed between two oleander bushes and was gone, leaving me thinking I hadn’t even offered him a nice cold drink of elderflower cordial.

David: (later, during the night) Darling, it wasn’t a dream.

😎

Dear friends,

 I lived in Florence on Piazza Santo Spirito in 1981, during my second year studying translation at university. My apartment was opposite the church, and the caserna, and there really was a bar below my flat where the waitress was a misery guts, but she had good taste in music. She blasted Seventeen Seconds over and over, especially A Forest, which, as I told David Bowie, is still one of my favourites. There was a Massimo and a Maurizio, and there is still a wonderful Valerie who always adored David Bowie, unlike myself.

But I did have a vivid dream about meeting David Bowie that I still remember incredibly clearly, and I’ve always thought of him as my friend throughout the decades, which sounds a little crazy, but it’s the truth! This piece grew from wanting to revisit that dream and take it to the limit, one more time, as the late Glenn Frey of The Eagles sang in what he called The Credit Card song (he told us that in Rome, during a concert!).

I hope you enjoyed this episode of How On Earth.

Have a wonderful week!

With love and gratitude,

Francesca xx

One of the photos Olivia took of me! www.oliviabossert.com