Nudity seems to be a bit of a theme at the moment. Last night I was about to get in the bath when it started pouring with rain. Wearing nothing but flip-flops and some hair extensions I rush out to get the washing in. Wolfie the dog is more excited by the sight of me naked than anyone has been for about 10 years but I think he thought we were going for a walk.

Next I run to the convertible car. Needless to say the roof is down. I hop in and chuckle to myself as I press the button to bring it back up. “Who needs laughter yoga eh?” I think. “Life is pretty damn funny without it.”

Then I catch sight of my hairline in the rear-view mirror. There are a couple of grey hairs showing. I make a mental note to get my hair dyed. But as I sit there starkers waiting for the roof to close a horrific thought hits me with more force than the Green Goblin taking out Spider-man.

“What happens when your pubic hair goes grey?”

Is it a signal to officially give up on life, sex and happiness as you know it? To admit that for you the war is truly over and all you have to look forward to is an old people’s home with bad food and strange-smelling corridors?

Or can you dye your pubes? Is there such a thing as pubic hair dye? If not, this is surely a business opportunity waiting to happen. Or maybe you can just use normal hair dye? Perhaps a few highlights would look good? You could have a pubic-hair makeover. Maybe go for red just to surprise people.

I am hoping I have a few years to go before I need to find out the answer to all these questions. I have no idea at what age one’s pubic hair goes grey but I do know one thing. I won’t be laughing about it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

We had an unusual guest to stay as soon as Marguerite had packed her beret and headed off home. He is a laughter yoga coach called Jeffrey, whom I met on Laguna Beach (see blog in March). This is a man who spends most of his days laughing. The Laughter Yoga movement was started by an Indian doctor and is rapidly spreading across the world. There are over 3500 groups in India (some of whom meet up to eight times a day) and around 2000 throughout the rest of the world. Apparently there is even a group in Toulouse though quite what they have to laugh about beats me.

We were all sitting in the kitchen Monday evening when it suddenly started pouring with rain. The sort of rain that can soak you within three seconds. I had just hung out a mountain of washing so started weeping.

“Who turned on the rain?” asked Olivia.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha hahahaa,” said Jeffrey. I scowled at him.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding like a US Marine. “We’re trained to laugh in times of adversity.”

So this is what we should do when faced with a traffic jam, a sulking child, an over-cooked piece of toast, an empty bank account: we should laugh. Jeffrey, or Present as the children called him, maintains it is possible. You just have to train yourself to laugh and the health benefits are enormous.

The children called him Present due to the fact that he didn’t bring them one (how spoilt are they?): “OK, then you’ll be the present,” they said.

Last night Present led a Laughter Yoga session for us all. My parents-in-law came as did my friend Mary and her children. After about a minute Bea stomped off saying: “This isn’t funny, it’s just silly.” Half an hour later Leo followed. “I’ve had enough of this laughing,” he said.

I liked it, although my cheeks ached after a while. I have to admit the session I had on Laguna Beach with the waves of the ocean crashing against the shore was probably more relaxing than the one in my garden wondering where my two smallest children were and if my mother-in-law would ever speak to me again but it was fun and, having been in a rotten mood all day, I felt happier. I guess it stands to reason that if you laugh your body thinks you’re happy and so you are. And as Present says; “Laughter and stress cannot coexist for any length of time.”

He has gone now but I will try to carry on his work and laugh at the challenges the day ahead bring. Looking at the dismal state of our bank account ha ha ha ha, look, no money! ha ha ha ha. The mess in the kitchen ha ha ha, what a mess! ha ha ha. Henman out of the French Open in the first round ha ha ha. Oh well as long as Safin is still in, I’m laughing.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Our weekend with Marguerite is going well so far. She has got used to us wearing knotted handkerchiefs on our heads and eating nothing but jelly and baked beans.

Bea had a bad go on her new pink bike. In fact she was complaining about how bad a bike-rider Marguerite is when she drove into the back of me and crashed. She has a horrible cut on her knee. Leo hit his head on the table when he stood up after rescuing his yellow car from the floor, Marguerite got her finger caught in a folding table (dangerous things these tables) and Olivia was stung by a bee. She concluded it was a “hurtie day”.

We had a lovely picnic at annual event just over the hill which involves sitting in the sunshine drinking wine and eating while listening to music and occasionally popping up to various stalls which sell wine, food and goat’s cheese. The children ran around having fun, we ate and drank far too much and had a perfect time. We were with some friends whom we invited to pop by for tea and a swim on their way home.

Sadly after all that wine and goat’s cheese not only Rupert and I, but Bea and Leo were passed out by the pool when they showed up. We were all naked, as is our habit when swimming alone (another custom for Marguerite to share with the rest of the village when she escapes). Rupert luckily had his straw hat strategically covering some of him but the rest of us were just plain undressed.

When we stumbled upstairs for a cup of tea we found a note: ‘Popped by but you were all asleep by the pool, see you very soon we hope’. ‘But maybe not so much of you’ they might have added.

Finally, Madeleine. The agony goes on. But is this a generational thing? The father of a friend of mine had the following conversation with him yesterday:

“This Madeleine thing….do you think the world is having a Diana moment?”

“Why?” asked my friend.

“Well, if we’d lost one of you, I mean of course we would have been upset, but we would have got over it.”

“How long do you think that would have taken you?”

“Oh, I would say about a week.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

This weekend is a long weekend in France. In fact, officially it’s not, the government cancelled the holiday on Monday two years ago but as is the norm here no one took a blind bit of notice and so everything is shut, including the schools. Even Chantal my childminder has gone away for the weekend. How selfish is that?

Not content with having three children to look after, I decide to invite a fourth to stay. Olivia’s school-friend Marguerite. Her parents are going away to help some elderly relation move, so I invite her here. So far it’s been fine. Apart from Bea deciding that tonight was a good time to try flying from the mezzanine in the spare room onto the bed. As I write they are all asleep in Olivia’s room, or at least pretending to be asleep.

Rupert took the news that we were going to have four children for three days calmly. His only worry was that we were going to have to “behave like French people”.

“How do they behave?” I asked.

“You know, putting our seatbelts on all the time, having a proper lunch, speaking French,buying baguettes for every meal.”

He also suggested that to make Marguerite’s stay more interesting (at least for us) we should adopt mad British customs like standing to attention and singing God Save the Queen before every meal. Obviously every meal should include baked beans.

“Come on girls, time to get your kilts on and drink some warm beer,” he will announce every day at 3pm, as we prepare our bagpipes (not that we have any, I wonder if we can buy them on ebay?). I suggest we arrange a game of cricket and insist everyone wears whites and shrieks “howzat” every three minutes. Or maybe indulge in a bit of binge-drinking (us, not the children, though the way Bea behaves you might think she’d been at the bottle).

Whatever else, one great British custom will be upheld tomorrow. Rupert goes off at the crack of dawn to play in a golf tournament all day. I am left alone with four children, a fat cat and a charming but useless dog who is possibly the only dog in the world who literally does the school run. He runs after us on the bikes.

But I suppose I only have myself to blame. I always knew there was a reason I should have taken up golf.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Olivia was home sick yesterday. She caught a cold by pouring cold water all over herself and then getting on the air-conditioned bus to come home after the school outing. I did tell her not to, but of course she took no notice. There are some days I feel like a ‘don’t-machine’ I just say don’t do this and don’t do that all the time. I even get bored with the sound of it myself so heaven knows how the children must feel.

Anyway, after a whole morning watching my movements she said: “Is this all you do all day? Just work and hang out the washing?”

I wish I could have said that no, I’m just being boring today because you’re here. Normally I crack open a bottle of champagne just after you leave for school, then my personal trainer (who also happend to double as Colin Firth in his spare time) comes over and we do some pilates, then a friend of mine picks me up in her helicopter and whisks me up to Paris where we land on the roof of Galeries Lafayette. We have a spot of lunch and then spend the afternoon shopping and having manicures. The helicopter whisks me back home in time for the 4.30 school run. So if I seem a little tired when I collect you, you can understand why. But sadly I had to admit that my days are really very mundane. Working and washing, washing and working and if I’m feeling really foot-loose a little ironing and emptying the dishwasher too. But only as a treat.

Just one more thing on Madeleine and then I will shut up. If it is possible to put micro-chips into pets then why not children? I know it’s drastic but at least then this wouldn’t happen again. They could have them removed when we stop fretting about them; so never.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

There were unidentified objects flying through the air, the heat was almost unbearable, the natives restless and noisy. This was before we even got off the coach.

A few weeks ago Olivia volunteered me as a ‘parent-in-charge’ for a school outing to an African Wildlife reserve called Sigean, about an hour from here. This is the sort of thing “good” mothers do all the time. There is one mother at the school who goes on every single outing. I met her today, and amazingly she seems quite normal .

Needless to say this was my first. Olivia must have sensed my reluctance (an hour on a coach with 60 children is probably not my idea of a great way to spend time). She clung on to my arm until we were safely on the coach and roaring down the motorway.

We arrived around 10.30 but then had to wait for half an hour due to some administrative mess-up. Once we were in the park there was an endless chorus of “I’m hungry” from almost every child. I was rather hoping some of the animals might be hungry too and bite someone so we could head off home early, but they were all very well behaved.

Of the pre-lunch animals I would say the ostriches were the most amusing; they have a very balletic walk and a rather inquisitive gaze under their super-long eye-lashes. They reminded me of funny old ladies with fake eye-lashes.

At midday exactly everyone stopped walking and we sat down to eat. We are in France after all. Once we had eaten we were off again for more animal spotting: giraffe, zebra, impala, alligators (mean looking creatures), snakes, goats, parrots, lion, even a cheetah. But the most interesting thing to the children was the sight of two male ducks both trying to mate with a female duck. “Don’t try this at home children,” I wanted to say, but thought the French teachers might not get the joke.

It was stiflingly hot; the children started filling their baseball caps with water and putting them on their heads. Olivia insisted on a friend of hers carrying her. Luckily this friend is twice the size of her. I asked Bea why. “Because she eats soup and salad every day,” she told me.

The journey home was slightly more peaceful than the one there. Well it was for Bea and me. We slept most of the way while the other 59 children fought and sang and chatted. Bea had rather sweetly insisted on washing her hair that morning because “if I don’t, no one will want to sit next to me on the coach”. I hadn’t washed my hair as it now takes me the better part of a day to do so. So it was either a trip to Sigean or wash my hair, and being a good mother I opted for greasy hair.

“It was a bit boring,” was Olivia’s verdict, but secretly I think she liked it. She certainly liked having me there and was very sweet to me all day, even letting me me off my leash now and then. So all in all it was worth it. And luckily Bea didn’t notice that I hadn’t washed my hair.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

“Mummy,”said Olivia yesterday. “Do you buy the presents that Father Christmas brings?”

This was too direct a question to ignore, or skirt around. What would you have done? She is seven years old. She has two younger siblings who passionately believe in Father Christmas. I remember believing in Father Christmas was one of the best things about being a child.

“No,” I lied.

“Oh good,” she said. “And I know you wouldn’t lie to me, except for maybe about your age.” Eeeeek. One day I will have to tell her that I did lie, but I was at least crossing my fingers. And as for lying about my age, I quote Oscar Wilde in my defence: “One should never trust a woman who tells her real age, if she tells that, she’ll tell anything.”

This morning I had the written equivalent of a “you’re really very pretty” comment (see below Flirting Allowed blog) on my website. A fourteen-year-old New York-based poet wrote asking me to “keep writing forever”. So I am floating once more. Somehow it meant a lot more than being told I’m pretty. Could I finally be maturing? Let’s hope not.

The only thing depressing me is Madeleine. My husband keeps telling me to stop obsessing but somehow I just can’t. I was awake at 4am again worrying about her. I know it’s not helping anyone but at 4am I have no control over my brain. If it happens again tonight I will just get up and do some ironing; anything is better than thinking about what might have happened to her.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

An article in the Daily Mail today tells us that men are now too scared to flatter women or to flirt with them. Apparently in our PC times a compliment is all too easily seen as an insult. So a ‘you look nice today’ can be miscontrued as either ‘I want to sleep with you’ or ‘you looked terrible yesterday’ or ‘I want to borrow your stapler/pen/hairbrush’.

When I was in London last week we had dinner with some friends at the Groucho Club in London (like you do). Towards the end of dinner I went to the loo. Walking in through the door of the restaurant bit as I walked out was a young man.

“I don’t mean to flirt or anything,” he said. “But you’re really very pretty.”

This comment didn’t make me want to call my lawyer, or my husband, or glare at the man with feminist rancour. No, it made me want to throw my arms around him. But as I concluded he was possibly myopic or deranged or drunk or in fact a combination of all three I resisted. But I floated back to our table and have to say I have only just stopped floating several days later. “I’m really very pretty,” I tell myself at least 100 times a day.

Why do women bother to wear make-up, curl their hair, buy lip gloss and go on diets if it’s not in part to make themselves attractive to men? (Obviously it’s mainly to irritate other women) And what exactly is so wrong with them noticing? If there are any men reading this; go forth and flirt immediately.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

“You are superman,” said Leo as Rupert kissed him goodnight last night.

“What’s mummy?”

“She’s a princess.”

It is true that aged three your world is quite simple. Mummy and daddy are perfect, superheroes really do exist and everyone loves you. I remember I thought that my mother ran the world until I was about seven, I was astounded to find out that she didn’t. In fact it’s a shame she doesn’t because she would do a better job than those that do.

Meanwhile I am going to put on my princess dress and wait for Superman to bring me my morning cup of tea. Normally he’s too busy saving the world to do so, but today may be an exeption.

Still no news on Maddy. Every time I hold Leo I think about her and how similar in size she must be to him and how much her mother must miss her. It’s unbearable. If Rupert really were Superman he could maybe do something. You can donate money or help in other ways by going to www.findmadeleine.com

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

We all want a conclusion to this story. It has to be said that it was with a sense of relief that at last something was happening that we watched the news the other night of Robert Murat’s arrest and the house search. It was chillingly familiar to the Soham murders; a local man hanging around the crime scene. And of course he had a dodgy glass eye as well as a shady past so suddenly two plus two made four and here was our man.

It was interesting to see how the Sky news reporter (not their brilliant correspondent Martin Brunt who has been calm and sanguine throughout) went from thinking Robert Murat was quite a “good bloke” to the chief suspect as the course of the news report went on.

He may very well be guilty. Only he really knows. But the fact is whatever else happens; his life as he knows it is over. If they don’t catch the abductor then he will face suspicion and possibly hatred wherever he goes. As he told Martin Brunt yesterday; “my life is ruined”.

This has the appearance of a witch hunt. No one knows anything about this man apart from the fact that he’s slightly dodgy. Slightly dodgy is not a crime and the media is no judge.

The local police are obviously desperate to come up with something. This has dragged on far too long. But to me the only crime so far has been Maddy’s abduction and to a much lesser extent the ineptitude of the police in the hours that followed. I am sure vital clues went missing then. Clues that could probably have determined Robert Murat’s innocence or otherwise, without this trial by TV.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007