Remind me to avoid Geneva airport in the future. Coming back from a meeting about an exciting new book deal in London (which I will tell you all about once it is signed) I flew into the scene of my handbag abduction episode. When I parked that morning (at 6am so I was a little bleary-eyed) I opted for the unlimited car park. I carefully wrote down Red 17 so that I would be able to find my car again.

I trudge towards the car park in my pink heels which after a day in London are hurting like hell. It is odd, I think to myself, that when I arrived the car park seemed so close, and now it seems so far away. I finally get there, heave a hugh sigh of relief and put the ticket in the machine. “Your ticket is not valid in this car park” it tells me. I look at my ticket. Unlimited Car Park number 1 it says. I am in unlimited car park number 51. This could explain it.

So I trudge back, swearing at my own idiocy, unaware that this episode is totally minor compared with the self-inflicted suffering I am about to come up with.

It is now ten to nine. I landed at 8.20 pm. I have an hour and a half drive ahead of me. The children are waiting up to say goodnight. I am about to throw my shoes away they hurt so much. To say I am keen to get home is an understatement.

I finally get back to the right car park and put my ticket in. It won’t let me pay with a card and I root around my newly-found handbag for any Swiss francs in a total blind panic before I realise the machine takes euros. Phew. I find Red 17 without any further mishaps and sink thankfully into my car. I set Titty (the GPS navigator) to my beloved Blanchiniere and plug in my phone. Ready to go!

Now all I need is the car parking ticket. It has vanished. Much like my handbag days before, it has been abducted. I literally turn everything upside down. I even crawl under the car, cursing and shouting at myself. I am in total disbelief. It HAS to be here. But it’s not. So I look for the office of the car park, there is none. I decide to drive to the exit and explain what has happened.

But when I get there and the man asks me where my ticket is I am just too ashamed to tell the truth, to tell him (even if he is hidden inside a machine) that I have no idea, that somewhere between paying for it and getting to my car I lost it. He’d think I am a fool, which I am, but why should he know that? So I lie. I cross my fingers and tell him the machine ate it. I get very Italian and shout about the machine. And the fact that my handbag was stolen last time I was here, and that I just WANT TO GO HOME. Eventually he releases me. I blow kisses to the invisible man in the machine and head for the motorway.

At home the children are asleep but Rupert is waiting with candles and a glass of red wine. I am so relieved to be there I almost weep. On Wednesday we go back to Geneva Airport to drop Bea off. I think I might stay in the car.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The Savoie is idyllic. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to, rather like Devon on steroids but with mountain ranges. But this tosh about a peaceful life in the country is, well, tosh.

I am pleased to report that the well-known and well-documented international terrorist conspiracy to keep me awake has another victim: Rupert. I never thought I would see the day but since we have been here he has been woken up by:

An over-sexed or over-something moth living in the beams

Rats or some rodent with fast friends running over our heads

Cows mooing (I am not joking, it woke me up too)

A neighbour’s dog running upstairs

Lambs bleeting (I noticed he ate his roast lamb with particular gusto on Sunday)

Dogs barking (no change there, we are in France after all)

Tractors racing (or at least that’s what it sounded like)

Birds singing

Cockerels crowing (to be expected)

It feels like we’re living in a mini-farm. But I love it. I have invested in some multi-coloured ear-plugs and am fighting the forces of evil. Rupert says he can’t wait to get to London next week for a bit of peace and quiet. I might just stay here with my earplugs in.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It’s that time of year again, Wimbledon time, which means I get to put pictures of Marat Safin on my blog, oh joy! Last night he played an incredible match - we were all literally on the edge of our seats. Except Bea who declared the whole thing “boring” and Safin “ugly”. He was playing an Italian I had never heard of called Seppi and we witnessed some of the best tennis I have ever seen. They went on until after 9pm, I can’t imagine how they could see anything.

This year for the first time ever women are being paid the same as men at Wimbledon. This strikes me as hugely unfair. They don’t do as much work. They play three sets, not five, and they’re simply not as entertaining or as good as the men. I totally support their demands to be treated as equals, but being paid the same to play less is not equal.

Back to the bag saga - I am pleased to report that it was stolen by a thief with appallingly bad taste. My gorgeous Montegrappa is safe, as is my collection of Chanel and Laura Mercier lip glosses bar one, which I assume they dropped. They also left my wallet, my Smythson passport cover (with passport inside) and my credit cards, now even more useless than they were before as they’ve all been cancelled.

The only thing missing was the cash and my sunglasses. Imagine the depression when I had to go and buy another pair…..I am now the proud owner of the latest “tendance” as they call it here, a pair of Tom Ford’s which are extremely Jackie O and rather more chic than my missing ones. Every cloud, eh?

But I shall be removing them briefly to get a good look at Safin on Monday.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

By 9am this morning as I was on the phone to the British Consulate in Lyon the Swiss police had left a message for me at home to say that my bag and the passports had been found at a railway station. Amazing. It is safe at the lost and found in Geneva. The charming man on the phone told me there was no cash left in it (funny that) but that the wallet was there along with some other personal belongings.

So when I go to collect it next week I will see if this is a literary thief (in which case the pink Montegrappa and pink Moleskin will have gone), a thief who cares about his or her hair (evidenced by missing Mason & Pearson brush, also pink), a pouting thief (my beloved lip glosses, mainly pink) or a myopic thief (my sunglasses).

I am hoping this thief was just after cash, which seems to be the case as we already know he or she has rejected my beautiful handbag and rather smart wallet.

Or maybe he or she just doesn’t like pink. In which case they will have left my passport in its gorgeous pink Smythson leather cover. Talking of which the most amazing thing about this whole mishap apart from the reappearance of the handbag has been finding out just how difficult it is to get a replacement passport, not to mention expensive. Bea would have had to miss out on her flight to Italy, and we would probably have ended up not going to Sweden in July. Despite the fact that I have scans of all the passports and a police statement.

So you are the victim of a crime and then made to suffer and feel like a criminal. Good work from her majesty’s service consular services. Maybe the Swiss should run them?
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It was all going swimmingly. We’d had lunch in Geneva, got soaked under the fountain on the lake (it was a boiling hot day) and got to the airport in good time to drop Olivia off for her flight to Italy where she is going to stay with my mother for three weeks.

“Watch out for pickpockets,” read a sign as we walked in. I warned Olivia to keep a close eye on her new Nintendo DS, I know she would be heartbroken if she lost it.
After check-in we went upstairs for a coffee. We sat down and I started to write out a list of people Olivia needs to write thank you letters to for her birthday presents. Suddenly I felt something like a chill wind behind me and it was gone…..

My beautiful handbag. I stood up and shouted, I ran around looking feverishly for some man with a green Birkin bag, the Swiss around went about their business calmly, probably assuming I was a lunatic.

If only we hadn’t gone to that cafe, if only I had put all our passports in the glove compartment as I’d meant to, if only I’d been using my Montegrappa pen instead of leaving it “safely” in my bag. And the worst of it is my nine lip-glosses and Gucci prescription sunglasses. I hope the little shit who stole my bag puts them on and falls in Lake Geneva.
But you know what, despite it all, all I could think of as I gave the police my statement was ‘thank God it wasn’t one of the children’. Olivia is on her way to Rome and the other two are asleep in the back.

“I’m sorry you lost your handbag and your beautiful pink pen,” said Bea before she fell asleep. “But at least you have your phone and your laptop.”
And I have them. And Rupes. And my Jerome Gruet hat (I’m not daft enough to put that in my handbag) and an excuse to buy a new handbag, obviously.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

There are few things that make me as angry as the situation in Zimbabwe. I read this morning that 60 or so women and children have been removed from the opposition party headquarters for “hygiene reasons”. They were hiding there for fear of beatings, arrest or worse. Meanwhile Morgan Tsvangirai has taken refuge in the Dutch embassy following the announcement that he has pulled out of the election on the grounds that it will be a non-election.

He is right. Not only will it be a non-election, it will cause huge suffering, as we have seen already. Thousands of people have been beaten and harassed. More than 200,000 have lost their homes. Food aid has been snatched and distributed to supporters of Mugabe. A run-off would have amplified these problems and ended with more deaths and beatings. Mugabe will stop at nothing to keep his grip on power, to continue to destroy what was once one of the most prosperous and happy countries in Africa.

What amazes and angers me almost as much as Mugabe (and by the way, is total dictatorship the secret to not ageing? How young does he look? Or has he had a series of clones produced that he controls with a remote?) is the fact that no one seems willing or able to speak out against him. I suppose nothing the “imperialist west” does will make any difference, although maybe cancelling the upcoming cricket tour would annoy him. But his African neighbours ought to do something, especially South Africa. Why the silence? Do they really want a crippled Zimbabwe on their doorstep? Or are they too scared of being rounded up for hygiene reasons to speak out?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It is not often that reality turns out to be better than one’s fantasy. For example those red croc stilettos from Fratelli Rossetti are great, but they have yet to change my life. And a cream cake rarely tastes as good as it looks. But here I am, in the Savoie, in a cottage called La Clementine and I couldn’t be more chuffed.

I have had my eye on this little place for a couple of years. It is close to our friend’s Norrie and Mary’s house. It sits in the dip of a valley, surrounded by rolling hills and mountains. It is made of stone and wood and extremely simple.

“What if it’s not as lovely as you imagined inside?” asked Rupert as we drove towards it. There is no pool, the bathroom is tiny (I have had to spread my three suitcases of products around the house) and the kitchen is the size of our bathroom at home. Compared with many of the luxury places I have stayed on our travels (thanks to being a journalist, there has to be some upside) you could describe it as spartan. But I totally love it. Who needs all that marble and people running around after you anyway? This is the most magical place I have ever stayed in. It just feels like home, exactly what we need now that we’re homeless until we get to Abu Dhabi. Come to think if it, we’re homeless once we get there as well. Have you tried to rent an apartment in downtown Abu Dhabi recently? Well, don’t. It’s a nightmare, worse than London and more expensive.

We arrived here yesterday afternoon after almost 10 days of travelling. We unpacked the car and as I write the coffee machine is warming up and my yoga mat (much missed during our trip as it was hidden in the top box of the car, which by the way has split under the strain of all my creams) lies on the floor ready for me to do sun-saltues with a mountain view.
The children have all run up to Norrie and Mary’s for their morning “flying biscuits” ritual and in the distance I can hear farmyard sounds. I will shut up now as I run the risk of sounding like one of those dreary people one wants to murder because they’re always droning on about how marvellous life is. But right now, it is.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I had many visions of where I would spend my 10th wedding anniversary: Le Byblos in St Tropez, Hotel de Toiras on the Ile de Re, Hotel Costes in Paris, some ritzy restaurant in London, a beach in the Caribbean, a luxury spa on Lake Geneva. After all, ten years of marriage is something to be celebrated. Just think, 10 years ago today I was squeezing myself into my wedding dress and worrying about where in the seating plan to put my father (immaterial as it turned out, he stormed off before it all happened).

So where am I? A McDonald’s on some nameless roundabout 10 kilometres from the Ile d’Oleron, our next island stop.

I have always refused to go to McDonald’s. I hate McDonald’s. It’s as far away from the kind of place I would like to spend any time as a public loo. (As a child I was famous for refusing to go to public loos, which made travelling with me anywhere tricky). And yet I am here, sitting at a table, drinking a perrier while all around me people stuff their faces with burgers.

And yet….it’s not that bad. I can’t smell the burgers (or the people), the table is wooden and they have HIGH SPEED FREE WIFI. This may not seem as exciting as a massage in a luxury spa but believe me, after several days on remote islands, it is amazing.

But I don’t think we’ll stay for lunch.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have been to the Ile de Re on France’s Atlantic coast three times and every time it has rained. Notwithstanding this, I love it. In fact I’m sure after two months in the desert I will be dreaming of its green coastline and soft showers.

To me it sums up why the French are the one nation in the world who have really got this ‘how to live’ thing sorted; beautiful countryside and wildlife, gorgeous little boutiques, beaches, fabulous food and wine and donkeys wearing trousers (I kid you not).

I just paid a visit to the post office here in the unfortunately-named Ars-en-Re. It was like walking into a Knightsbridge coffee shop. The cycle hire shop is run by a woman who would give Angelina Jolie a run for her money. Rupert keeps getting punctures, I can’t think why.

We have lunch planned (obviously, what else does one do during breakfast?) in a totally trendy looking spot called Le Bo and then we take a boat to another island called Ile d’Aix. I am assuming that once we’re off the Ile de Rain the sun will shine.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I had no idea where Abu Dhabi was until Rupert told me he had been offered a job there. He likes to get a proper job once every ten years or so, so he’s off to work on the business desk of a new newspaper called The National (www.thenational.ae).

“I’ll stay here,” I told him, imagining life as a single parent with a little trepidation. No one in their right mind wants sole responsibility for our three children, for every school run, every meal, every bit of shopping, ironing and homework.

Then my agent called me. A client of hers was going out too, to edit the new weekly magazine. Was I interested in working for her as a staff writer?

I decided to do some research into Abu Dhabi. This could be an interesting new slice of cake (see below blog). Here’s what I found out:

It’s hot
There are lots of parks
There are beaches
There are seven-star hotels
There are lots of shops, I mean SERIOUS amounts of shops
Most houses come with maid’s quarters
There are two French schools
The Louvre and the Guggenheim is about to open (good for when the shops are closed)
Dubai is close by
There are camels
There’s not much wine

I decided to join him and so after our European tour we are moving. The children are going to the French school and we are going to work. All very grown up. I will miss my afternoon kips and walks with wolfie but am extremely excited by this new adventure.

The children have taken it really well. Not a word of complaint and they’re really looking forward to it. Olivia did have two questions: “Are they handsome and will we have maids?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “But we’re about to find out.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008