So my first outfit is deemed “too muttony” by my husband. His comment on the second one is “you look like you’re going to a hen party.” Finally he agrees the white linen trousers, white cotton shirt and red cardigan will be fine. And the shoes of course (thank you for all your tips); Bruno Magli sandals. No need to worry about the bag, I put all our swimming kit, my lipgloss and the wine in a basket.
The chateau we are invited to is beautiful. Just the drive up to it is beautiful, there are tall trees either side and elegantly cut hedges. Bea’s first comment is that we should move our house here. I suggest we start with lunch. The other guests are all staying there so are assembled. They are all very successful writers, political commentators, general luminaries. The owner of the chateau (one of the world’s most charming men) is in commercial property.
THE editor (English, not American, I’m with Amber below, the prospect of lunch with Anna Wintour would have made me apoplectic with fear, instead of just quaky) is sitting looking very casual in an armchair, holding a glass of something pink and fizzy.
I have told the girls (who love The Devil wears Prada) that she is like Miranda in the film. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact I look more like Miranda in my high heels. Her shoes look more like Leo’s (who is by the way wearing a pink waistcoat). They are basketball shoes. Leo’s were from Hennes. I’m assuming hers are Hermes. She is also wearing one of those smock-style tops over jeans and a short cardigan. She is very relaxed, very nice and not in any way scary. Actually I feel a little overdressed and wish I’d gone for the ‘muttony’ outfit instead.
But all is not wasted. During lunch my charming host comments on how gorgeous my shoes are and actually tells me he remembers the shoes I was wearing last time we met. What a perfect man.
The children are entertained by his wife and their daughter. They have a marvellous time trying to catch fish in the fountain, swimming in the heated pool and cycling on the lawns. The daughter is lovely and Leo clings to her all day like a fashion victim clings to the last Prada dress in a sale. He is still asking about her, as is his father.
Back home I immediately watch the news to see if there’s any progress in the hunt for Maddy. I wake up several times during the night thinking about it. Sometimes I am in despair and sometimes I think that maybe the people who took her will suddenly realise how awful this is and just bring her back. That’s probably a bit naive but I would give anything to see them reunited. Rupert says that if everyone in the world is looking for her, surely they will find her. Here’s hoping.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007
Do I try to go fashionista? Wear something designer? Do I actually have anything designer? Or should I go Sunday Yummy Mummy; all jeans and baggy jumpers and ‘oh aren’t I just so casual’? But which jeans? Is it now a crime to wear skinny jeans or have they come back in? I also have a pair of high-waisted jeans but worry these may be seen as an affront to her sensibilities.
I have just come back from my friend Frank’s memorial service. It was the first memorial service I have ever been to, but I suppose from now on they will be as frequent as 21st birthday parties were twenty years ago.
So it seems the Queen and I were in America at the same time. I wonder how different our visits have been. While I was recovering from a day of exhausting makeover treatments in my hotel room (actually I spent most of the evening trying to find a light-switch, why do they have to make things so complicated?) she was dining with the world’s most stupid person, sorry, president and a list of esteemed guests that included people like A. Jerrold Perenchio, chief executive, Chartwell Partners (who?) and other riveting A-list names like Joseph J O’Donnell, chief executive, Boston Culinary Group along with Clay Johnson III from the Office of Management and Budget. “Eat your oysters, Your Majesty,” he was probably telling her. “They were very expensive.” And just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, Margaret Becket shows up.
Anyway, my point is this. You’d think with being Queen you might be allowed to invite whoever you want to dinner. There were no names on that list that I would have asked for. And several were glaringly absent. What fun is a dinner at the White House without Brad Pitt, for example, or Dr McDreamy, or George Clooney? About as much fun as a trip in Upper Class without a Colin Frith look-alike. Talking of which, I am writing this from Premium Economy. Of course had I been upgraded I would have been asleep by now…….
Normally I look at the Daily Mail website every morning to see if my latest article has made it in. Now all I am interested in is news about Maddy, the little girl that was abducted Thursday from a resort in the Algarve.
I have to say her last speech really annoyed me. “It’s time for a woman,” she roared. “But will France dare? I say to you France: dare, dare, dare.” Last time I looked being President had nothing to do with what sex you are, but how good you are at convincing the electorate you will be good at the job. Imagine if a man had said France needs a man. What an uproar there would have been.
So I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for my expert commentary on the Sego/Sarko debate last night (considering I am a prize-winning political commentator see 
Seeing the children
Reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to the children and remembering how excited I felt the first time I read about Lucy going through the wardrobe
The driver is a rasta and the cab smells very strongly of ganga. Actually it isn’t an unpleasant smell, much nicer than tobacco. The road is windy and so I take deep breaths so as not to throw up. Big mistake. We chat about love, life and religion. I love his attitude. He calls his girlfriend his “empress” and tells us never to fight with each other.