TURN BACK THE TIME, BABE. BOOK 5. GIVING IT ALL MY SOUL

BACK HURRY BACK

Stafford Terrace was my new married-couple home. Little did I know when I stepped into there for the first time by mistake in 1984 that it would  become my home with Freddie eventually. After so many twists and turns, after got frustrated our first clumsy attempt to living together when I had to go back to 2020 because Alex's accident. After all that, that seemed happen light years ago, Elideth Mercury reigned supreme in this beautiful kitchen.

After all, my 1978 Stafford Terrace looked different than the official one in 1978. He bought this flat for me, to be mine and living with me here. A real crazy thing that later on dissolved like a sugar in the tea when I ran away again and killed that romantic and unselfish Freddie with just some good-bye words.

We came back to Great Britain safe and sound after a very intense american tour, finishing with three gigs in a row at the Forum in Inglewood, Los Angeles. There were again naked cyclists women on stage and Freddie could ride one of the bikes too. He invited his friend Peter Straker for this last leg in which not only had his voice a little bit soared but also practically all his body. He was physically and emotionally exhausted and Peter was great to cheer him up.

The 20th december 1978 night was the end of the Jazz american tour. With the wild post show party, the inevitable hangover, the 9 hours flight and the jet lag, we arrived at the Bulsara's Christmas table not very decent. Apart from being irritable and picky each other, we had a row about the ring. I would rather not wearing the ring Freddie gave me because I didn't want to offend Jer's gift and revealing the loss of her jewel. Freddie, claimed I couldn't wear my wedding finger naked because his mother would start to ask questions. Jer, of course, asked questions anyway not seeing her ring in my wedding finger and we had to start our web of white lies. In this mission I had become a real professional of lies and it was very easy for me weaving believable stories. So Mrs. Bulsara was at ease with my version. I had get it clean to leave it brand new.

In his condition as tax exile Freddie only could stay in his country not more than 10 weeks per year, distributed at his will. So our domestic life in the beautiful Stafford Terrace had its days numbered. We barely stayed here three weeks before restarting the european tour and flying to Hamburg. That was the gypsy life I would lead those first few months into our married life.

Sometimes I attended Queen offices but my work place was arranged in our home. That way I could walk out just when I needed and that bright and cozy flat provided me enough peace and relaxation to carry out my work with an eye on the impending tour.

I had in front of me a surprising balance respect the critics of their shows in the recent american tour. In Sentinel Star kept insisting with the eternal critic about the canned music of Bohemian Rhapsody. Disappointment was the word that used to appear when they talked about that particular moment of Bo Rhap live when the four of them walked out the stage and that part of the song unfailingly must to be played recorded. The four of them were very aware of the critics that would rain on them deciding playing the canned operistic part but honestly, no matter how hard they tried to find a formula, there was no other way. That complex fragment couldn't be performed live. It was too twisted to four voices with no effects could carry forward all that was required. The Sentinel critic attacked that moment of "I'm taking advantage to change my clothes and press the button Play".

Timothy from Michigan Daily thought the show was correct but not so good as the News of the World tour and according to him, Freddie had lost not only voice but also charisma. As journalist I could understand a lot of things and I knew quite often the papers sent people to the gigs who doesn't have any idea about music. I was sent to cover ufologic news in News of the World paper. But precisely in those occasions a journalist had to do a double effort to try to fake his own desorientation.