I haven’t even left France and already I’ve been through a turbulent landing (lots of green faces, including mine) a bomb scare at Charles de Gaulle airport (possibly the most unpleasant place on earth apart from Abu Ghraib) and an hour and a half delay. Things can only get better.

To amuse myself I have been thinking about something I read in the paper this week. Apparently there is a new kind of addict; the e-mail addict. This is a person who cannot walk past a computer without checking his or her messages and if there aren’t enough of them will even resort to sending a few to himself. An e-mail addict cannot go for more than a few minutes without hitting the ‘send and receive’ button, it is as compulsive as breathing for them. There is even a woman in Pennsylvania offering e-mail addicts a twelve-step “detox” plan which includes first of all admitting that “your e-mail is managing you”.

What I find funny is the thought of these addicts pouncing on other people’s computers to feverishly see if anyone has bothered to send them anything. As I write there is a man in a white cotton shirt and black trousers (they probably wear innocuous clothes so as not to attract too much attention) next to me looking highly suspicious. I shall be holding on to my laptop tightly throughout the flight, assuming we ever get air-borne.

Nowadays it seems you can get addicted to anything; and of course it’s never your fault. Articles rave about the danger of women becoming addicted to plastic surgery and other treatments like Botox (now renamed something I can’t remember to separate it from its links with lethal toxins). Frankly if women are stupid enough not to know when to stop, that’s their own fault. There are lots of things available we shouldn’t do to excess, and it’s up to us to use some self-control.

But back to Ralph Fiennes and that encounter with the air hostess. Do you think he could possibly be a sex addict? I mean, she was OK, but of a certain age and by no means a looker. In fact I’d say she was actually quite plain and very common looking. About as far away from the elegant Francesca as you can get. I wonder whether his addiction didn’t get the better of him and he just couldn’t control himself. I just don’t understand why else he would have gone for her. Or maybe she had a Blackberry tucked up her skirt.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Ever since I wrote the blog about the woman with the nasty neck I have been thinking about what other films would be in my top ten. Then the Oscars came and went and now I’m off to LA so a film-themed blog seems appropriate.

One thing that strikes me is that you can tell a lot about a person through his or her favourite films. For example, someone who tells you their favourite film is The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is not really going to make you feel comfortable, especially if there happens to be a chainsaw lying around.

Incidentally, why do people subject themselves to horror movies? Is it the same principle as a roller-coaster? Some kind of emotional high you are incapable of feeling for some reason through normal measures like a new pair of shoes or great sex? Recently there was a horror movie so horrible that people were throwing up in the aisles. Really impressive on a first date.

Anyway, in no particular order, here are my top ten films and also a brief analysis of what liking the film tells you about a person.

Some Like it Hot – incurable romantic with desire to change men who will never change

Sleepless in Seattle – incurable romantic with fondness for alliteration

Thelma & Louise – incurable romantic with extreme fondness for Brad Pitt

Now, Voyager – incurable romantic with penchant for makeovers

Brief Encounter – incurable romantic with a taste for the impossible

Gone with the Wind – incurable romantic with sense of history and love of dramatic dresses

The Killing Fields – incurable romantic (think of the end) with strong feelings for human rights

Dr Zhivago – incurable romantic with particular romanticism about all things Russian

Casablanca – incurable romantic with a sense of realism, however irritating it might be

Zeffirelli’s Romeo & Juliet – incurable optimist – I always hope somehow the ending will have changed

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

The other night when Rupert was away and the two smaller children were in bed, Olivia (aged seven) and I had what people rather nauseatingly call “quality” time together. We sat in a rose-oil scented bath, both wearing shower caps, and discussed life’s important issues such as why people die and whether Dr McDreamy loves Meredith or his bossy wife.

Then we moved on to lesser topics such as what I wanted to be when I was a little girl. The answer is a vet for wild animals, a surgeon, an actress or a writer. Olivia liked the idea of being a vet or an actress. The surgeon didn’t appeal because “you have to hold hearts”. She liked the idea of writing a book about how annoying her sister is.

When we got out of the bath we both wrapped ourselves in white towels and started brushing our teeth. I wandered out of the bathroom towards the fireplace, still brushing my teeth. I looked behind me at one stage and there was this little girl, gazing up at me adoringly, copying my every movement. All of a sudden a terrible voice came into my head which said; “One day she will hate you.”

I had a terrible night’s sleep. All night that sentence went round and round in my head. I wondered what they will hate me for. Travelling too much? Not sharing my night cream with them? Refusing to take them to McDonald’s? Always being on a deadline?

It occurred to me that while a mother’s love is unconditional forever; a child’s is only unconditional for a very short time. As Oscar Wilde said; “Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.”

I am hoping my children will all go through the normal process of hating me when they’re sixteen and then realising there are worse people. Maybe they’ll take after me. I never went through a rebellious teenage phase, my mother was far too nice and anyway always much more of a rebel than me.

Luckily at the moment the children’s hate is focused on Maud. Maud is nine years old and is Leo’s girlfriend (despite the fact that he is only three). Or so he thought until he had the following conversation with his sisters. You need to know that Astrid is a little girl who is two years old.

Bea: Leo, Maud doesn’t love you, she’s a liar. Look at me, I’m not joking when I say it.

Olivia: That’s not nice; she’s a big girl, that’s not nice to lie to a little boy.

Bea: Yes, he’s just a little boy with his little heart.

Leo: Yes I am.

Bea: Leo, Astrid might be smaller than you, but she loves you.

Olivia: That’s good, anyway boys are supposed to be bigger than girls.

I am pleased to report that yesterday, according to the girls, Leo and Astrid “kissed on the lips”, although any talk of marriage was quickly denied by both parties.

Eat your heart out Maud.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am planning my trip to the US next week for my book on how not to age. Part of my aim is to interview interesting women of a certain age and discover their anti-ageing secrets. One of these women is the writer Nora Ephron (see below blog things everybody should know).

I have been a fan of Nora’s since I read her novel Heartburn almost twenty years ago. Then of course I saw When Harry met Sally which made me revere her even more and when Sleepless in Seattle came out (one of my all-time top ten films, yes, I know, I’m deeply superficial) she was elevated to goddess status in my mind.

So imagine how gutted I was to hear from her agent that she will be in London when I’m in New York. I briefly thought about re-arranging my whole trip but realised that would be impossible, not least because my ticket is non-flexible and having not yet written anything as good as Sleepless in Seattle I can’t afford another one.

“How about a telephone interview?” I asked. He said he would get back to me. I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to tell Nora that when I met Margaret Jay I hated her on sight, and that was before I even knew she’d run off with Nora’s husband Carl Bernstein.

Today, three weeks later, I finally hear back. It’s a no. “She doesn’t have anything to contribute,” writes the agent. “It all ended up in her book I feel bad about my Neck.”

Well that’s just rubbish. There is really one chapter of the book that is about ageing and you’re not telling me that one of the most prolific female American female writers of our times has “nothing to contribute”. This is a woman who never stops contributing.

Maybe she is just too famous now, but I would hope, well first I hope I become as famous and successful as she is, but then if I do become famous and successful I hope that if a life-long fan of mine who is younger and less successful than I am tries to spend ten minutes on the phone with me I would agree to do it. I mean she could multi-task, paint her nails at the same time and I would pay for the call. She could even get one of her servants to take the call, how the hell would I know? I just don’t see what she has to lose. Maybe she gets inundated with requests every day. Although I can’t think from whom, it’s not as if she’s Sharon Stone (another one who turned me down by the way, but I was less surprised by that).
Iris Murdoch replied to every letter she ever got from a reader. I do too, even the truly offensive ones. It really doesn’t take much, and who are you writing for, if not the people that read you?

So my book will have to do without Nora Ephron. I guess I’ll get over it. And as her mother used to tell her; “Everything is copy.”

By the way, my husband has been complaining that my blog only has pictures of sexy men on it. He says it’s like a middle-aged woman’s fantasy blog. So here is a picture of Sharon just for him. And any middle-aged lesbians who might be reading. As for the rest of you, normal service resumes tomorrow.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I know now why surgeons wear green. It’s to match their faces. I have just got back from “scrubbing in” as they call it in Grey’s Anatomy. I am at the La Prairie Clinic just outside Montreux researching my next book and having a perfect time. This place is paradise. I have slept for ten hours each night, eaten the healthiest food I have ever seen and been pampered from head to foot. If you’ve got the dough; go.

Today I interviewed their plastic surgeon, a charming man called Sabri Derder. Dr Derder was rushing off to operate when we met so we only had 20 minutes to chat.

“What sort of operation is it?” I asked.

“Breast lifting, liposuction and a nose job,” he said. “All on the same woman.”

I said I would love to see that. “Come along,” he told me. “But you should have lunch first.”

In the restaurant I was too excited to eat. The thought of all that green kit, a real operating theatre and real live Dr McDreamy (pictured left) just made me lose my appetite. So off I charged to the female dressing room in the operating block where I was given a whole new (green) outfit, complete with plastic green clogs (slightly last season but we are in Switzerland) and a cute little scrub-cap (although I can see why McDreamy and co have their own designer ones). Oh and a mask, which looked truly unsexy with glasses but what the hell. I was told to wash my hands and forearms and then cover them in antiseptic. I was a little worried about how the antiseptic would mix with the seaweed wrap I’d had earlier but it seemed OK.
On the operating table lay the victim. Dr Derder was busy pushing metal poles into her hips. Through a plastic tube a mixture of fat and blood was pouring.

“Have you had lunch?” asked Penny, the English scrub-nurse. “It’s always better to eat beforehand.”

I coped well with the liposuction. It was the breasts that did me in. You know how when men get a football in their crotch other men inexplicably always wince? Well, you should have seen me wince. I won’t go into too much detail but a boob-lift is not as simple as it might sound. This woman’s nipples, for example, were moved up by four centimetres.

I have thought about a boob-job, especially after the mammogram left my breasts less perky than they once were (see below blog Flat as a Pancake). I also thought it might be a painless way of dealing with any impending mid-life crisis. Believe me, it isn’t.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

As far as I can make out, the only upside to flying is you might bump into Ralph Fiennes in the loo (Daily Mail article). I am at Heathrow, dishevelled and grumpy, having been put through something they call a “random personal search”.

As I stood in the two-mile long queue (having already queued for 45 minutes at the “fast” bag drop) there was a flashing sign informing all us criminals (sorry, passengers) that any of us could be called in at any moment for this random search and if we refused we would be subjected to a “full hand search”.

I think that sounds rather interesting, like something Ralph might try in the aircraft loo. But being too polite to refuse the random search I was instead escorted into a small space where I had to twist myself into strange positions with my hands above my head while some machine checked I didn’t have any bombs tucked into my jeans (security guards take note, a woman wearing skinny jeans is not going to be carrying a bomb in them, she can hardly force her legs and bum in, let alone anything else).

I have no idea why they picked on me. I had a good night’s sleep so look fairly normal for once, I was not wearing a head-scarf and I smiled pleasantly at the man in charge of the queue. My only explanation is that the female in charge of spotting suspicious-looking women fell in love with my coat (it happens a lot) and just HAD to check out the label (Katherine Hooker if you’re interested).

So I am now waiting to board my flight to Geneva where I will spend three days recovering from this arduous morning at the La Prairie Clinic near Montreux. I am going there to see if they hold the secret to eternal youth and will reveal all in my next book. Thankfully when I head home on Thursday, I am going by train.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am often accused of writing about stereotypes. Sometimes I get really nasty letters from grumpy readers who call me things they can’t spell like bigoted and offensive. But the fact is that people from different parts of the world are DIFFERENT. However much of a stereotype you might think it is, the French do like their lunch and millions of Englishmen drink warm beer.

During my recent trip to Paris the difference between the two nations was polarised by two events. The thing about major cities is that there are lots of roads to cross. And in Paris there are lights denoting when it’s a good time to walk and when its not. A little green man is the signal that it’s safe to cross. (Actually, it’s not, it’s just a Parisian trick, the cars keep coming anyway.)

My step-daughter Julia is being raised and educated in England. She ignored the red man and whenever she saw an opportunity to cross the street, went for it. Bea on the other hand stood resolutely on the kerb, even if there wasn’t a car for miles around, and waited for the green man. When Julia tried to negotiate and suggest that a little flexibility might be a good idea she just said; “You’re not supposed to cross when it’s red. I’m right.” Of course as a mother I am keener on Bea’s road safety ethos than Julia’s, but you get my point. This attitude, instilled in the French from an early age, has resulted in 300,000 French people who like to take risks and cross roads without permission moving to England.

On the train back down south there was a fat middle-aged man sitting next to me (why is it never a thirty-something former male model turned professional tennis player?). As soon as the train began to move, said fatty fell asleep. Then a most extraordinary noise began. It even drowned out Bridget Jones’s Diary which the girls and I were watching. I have never heard a grizzly bear snore but I imagine it must sound something like this man did.

Being English-educated and therefore obsessively polite I, of course, did nothing apart from lean closer to my laptop in an effort to hear the film. A rather young and beautiful Frenchwoman sitting opposite me though decided after half an hour than enough was enough. She began by gently tapping his knee, then tapping it harder, then shouting “Monsieur” in his ear, then kicking his shinbone under the table. When none of this worked, she took my water bottle (without asking I might add) and started to spray water at him. Finally she resorted to pulling the hairs on his forearm with one hand while slapping his knee with the other. This did the trick. I sat there cringing throughout; half-willing her to succeed so I could hear what Mark Darcy was saying and half terrified of the consequences of her terribly rude actions.

I am now on a plane bound for London and an appearance on The Sunday Edition tomorrow to discuss yet another British obsession; class. The French definitely have the upper hand here; they just accept it and get on with it. And they’re not polite enough to pretend it doesn’t exist or that they’re appalled by it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am in Paris filming for Tonight with Trevor McDonald (ITV 8pm this evening if you’re bored). As it’s the school holidays I am with my daughter Bea (aged 6) and my stepdaughter Julia (aged 12). I decided that I would introduce them to the museums of Paris (as well as the shops) so on the way up on the train I showed them the Musee d’Orsay website and a couple of Van Goghs.

“He’s not better than me,” said Bea, who is the artist in the family.

There was also much talk of the Eiffel Tower (or the Scary Tower) as Bea has nick-named it. In the taxi from the station we all tried desperately to be the first to see it. Julia won, Bea seemed unable to grasp that it was in the sky and kept asking if random bridges or buildings were it.

After a successful trip to the Bon Marche (why is it department stores in Paris are so elegant, how do they do that?) we walked up the rue du Bac to the Musee d’Orsay. I spent a lot of my childhood being dragged around museums so am a firm believer in deciding what you want to see and then going to see that. If you then want to stay on, fine. So it was to the Degas and the Van Gogh rooms we headed.

Degas passed off without incident. The girls loved the dancers and I was thrilled to be the first to show them a Degas. Then we came to van Gogh. In front of the painting of L’Eglise d’Auvers Bea started weeping.

“I’ll never be able to paint like that,” she wailed, much to the amazement of other on-lookers.

She took a lot of consoling. We even had to phone her father who told her that of course she would be able to paint like Van Gogh, it was only a matter of time. Eventually she got over it and we spent a freezing evening on the Eiffel Tower; me scared, the girls over-joyed.

As I write Bea is busy copying a reproduction of the van Gogh that sent her into such turmoil. And I have to say, she’s doing a pretty good job of it, although I’m not sure how she’s going to copy that deep blue sky with just a packet of twelve felt-tips.

Today we are going to the Louvre – heaven knows how she’ll react when she sees the Mona Lisa but I’m just going to have to risk it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

This is a new series, and I’m sorry if I’m boring those of you without children but one day you may have them or you will at least know someone who does have them and so you can warn them. If you don’t I’m sure the same applies to pets.

The other day in Montpellier I took the children to the merry-go-round. It was closed.

“It’s your fault,” wailed Leo after I refused to let him break through the barrier and get on. We walked on towards the park where I hoped to distract them by feeding the ducks. They were in a terrible mood due to the closed merry-go-round and started fighting each other in the street.

“Stop,” I yelled, secretly praying some stranger would take pity on me and take them away from me.

“Well,” said Bea, looking her most belligerent, “it’s your fault for having so many children. Why did you have to have three of us?”

Later at home Olivia knocked her drink all over the table. “Mummy,” she yelled at me. “Now look!” I was, at the time, at least ten metres away from her by the sink, lovingly washing up after their dinner (what a martyr) but the spilled drink was of course ALL MY FAULT.

So there you have it. The English poet Charles Churchill once said of the actor Thomas Sheridan: “Where he falls short, ’tis Nature’s fault alone; Where he succeeds, the merit’s all his own.”

Substitute the word nature for the word mother and you have parental truth number one.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

This evening we were having a late dinner alone (the children had already eaten) when Olivia came rushing into the kitchen.

“Please come downstairs and watch the film with us, it’s scary, there’s an evil man on the roof.”

The film she was talking about is Oliver Twist. This is not the first time she has been scared by a film. A Christmas Carol had them all quaking on Boxing Day. The graveyard scene in Great Expectations still makes them shudder, even though they’ve seen it at least twenty times.

Aside from what most people would call suitable viewing (like the above) my children also watch Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy. Always with me. Not from any sense of parental responsibility but because I don’t want to miss an episode.

A lot of my friends and relations think this is a bad thing. They think I’m irresponsible. Maybe they’re right. But here’s the thing (as Meredith would say) they have never once been frightened by anything that happens in either of those programmes. I think because they’re so far removed from their world that they’re simply not scary to them. They don’t relate to them on that level, unlike Oliver Twist who is a child and whose suffering they can assimilate.

I asked a pediatrician friend of mine recently if I was wrong to let them watch these soaps.

“Can they do any lasting damage?” I asked.

She laughed. “No, not at all. But what you have to remember is that they love watching them so much because they watch them with you.”

Well, here’s the thing; the feeling’s mutual.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007