When I was a little girl I would spend hours hitting a tennis ball against a cement wall in a barn on the farm we lived. One of the few advantages of getting older is that I can now pay someone to hit a tennis ball back to me.

I am sure that anyone who is a parent thinks their children are having a nicer childhood than they did. Last night we sat watching our three jump in and out of the pool, climb the almond tree to pick some almonds and push each other in the hammock squealing with laughter eating figs from the fig tree.

“I’d like to have my childhood again,” said Rupert. “Here.”

I agree with him. But the children of course don’t see it. Last Wednesday as I spent my whole afternoon driving them around to their various sports activites Olivia was complaining.

“When I was little I didn’t have anyone to drive me anywhere,” I said, sounding like the Monty Python ‘we had it tough’ sketch. “I had to walk three miles to the local stable, muck out horses all morning and then in return I would get to ride for an hour.”

“Why didn’t you cycle there?” she asked. Good point. Wish I’d thought of that.

Anyway, back to tennis. During my lesson this morning a young man who looked like a cross between Rafael Nadal and Feliciano Lopez arrived on the court next door to me.

In my seven years here I have yet to spot what men would call a ‘total babe’. In about three seconds this man made up for seven years of babe deprivation. Then he took his top off.

I am going to call my catholic friend Mary with whom I had a heated discussion last night and tell her she’s right. There is a god.

Yesterday I had the agony of watching Tim Henman almost lose at Wimbledon again. How many years have I been putting myself through this? And today there’s more to come as he goes into the second round. I have a vast pile of ironing and will steady my nerves with green tea, hoping against hope that he’ll make it.

I can’t quite work out why it matters so much, I suppose except that I am mad about tennis and would love to see an Englishman win Wimbledon, or anything for that matter. When I was growing up I had Bjorn Borg to cheer. Then Stefan Edberg to fancy. Now there’s really no one that I support with any great passion apart from Henman. Although I admire Federer for his total brilliance.

The problem with Henman is he’s just too middle-class to win. As I watched him sipping something that looked suspiciously like home-made elderflower juice yesterday it struck me that he just lacks the drive and hunger to really make it. He never struts onto to the court like Nadal who looks like he’s about to fight a prize-winning bull. Yesterday for once he looked fired up and actually punched the air a couple of times. Sadly he looked a bit like Bertie Woorster would have done, rather silly.

I adore Tim Henman and won’t have a word said against him. He is just the kind of boy you’d want your girls to bring home and announce they were in love with. But that sort of character doesn’t always make a ruthless winner.

There is hope for the future though. Last night I spent an hour throwing a table-tennis ball to Leo who hit it back to me (and at me) with a bat. “I’m a genius,” he announced every time he hit a good shot. I have to admit he doesn’t look half-bad. And he’s left-handed which is great news.

I had a Bridget Jones moment (remember when after the first email exchange with Daniel Cleaver she fantasizes about their wedding day) where I saw myself in the VIP box at Wimbledon watching Leonardo win the title, the first Englishman to do so for several hundred years. The crowds were going crazy cheering, I was weeping, he looked splendid with his blond floppy hair and Ralph Lauren shorts. Then I got a table-tennis ball on my head.

But I am going to enroll him for the children’s Wednesday afternoon tennis sessions in Pezenas. You never know. Do you think I could bring my ironing and green tea to centre court?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Never mind globalisation; there is an even greater threat lurking. Sweden is on course for world domination. It is achieving this through subtle cultural infiltration at thousands of IKEA stores all over the world.

You read it here first: the Viking spirit is far from dead.

On Saturday we went to IKEA. It was midsummer and we were greeted by smiling faces offering us hand-made garlands and scrummy cakes.

“It’s midsummer,” they told us. “Free cakes, free ice-creams, treasure hunts for the children.” We had a lovely time. The children had more fun than they had at Aqualand. We left laden with goods feeling jolly happy.

This might all seem harmless, but I know their cunning plan. Next we’ll be celebrating other strange rituals, like throwing ourselves naked into lakes on April 30th to welcome spring (which if you live in Sweden is still several months away) or putting candles on our heads on December 13th, wearing sheets and singing loudly.

All this free cake may seem like a good idea at the time but you’ll end up like Edmund in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, unable to live without it and craving more endlessly. Which of course means you have to go back to IKEA to buy some (and be brainwashed again). And this is not just happening in France. Take a look at any instructions from IKEA. They come in every language known to man, and some that are unknown.

As a half-Swede I am guilty of supporting the aim of a global Sweden. If you don’t actually have to live there, it is the best possible of cultures. The food is fantastic, the people are thin and pretty, the cars reliable and the pagan rituals hysterical. Where else can you spend June 21st dancing round a may-pole, singing about small frogs without ears (I kid you not) and then falling over?

After our successful brain-washing session at IKEA on Saturday we went for dinner with some Italian/French friends. As we were leaving I pressed a packet of Swedish cakes into my hostess’s hands.

“Try them,” I smiled sweetly. “They’re truly divine.”

It’s only a matter of time before she’s ours, all ours…….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

In England the advertising slogan ‘go to work on an egg’ has been banned. Apparently an egg every morning is not a well-balanced enough diet. This morning we were late for school so Rupert gave Olivia an apricot for breakfast as she got in the car.

“You must buy more of these,” she said.

Actually they come from our garden. And although life in the south if France is not all rural idyll, this morning it was.

After we dropped the children at school we walked down to our almond grove where we watered our wisteria and oleander. Then we sat in the morning sun eating fresh almonds. They are the most beautiful things. The hull is a light, delicate green, its flesh is moist and thick. Once you open this you have the kernel, a light-brown shell that looks like its made of cork. Inside this is the fresh almond, covered in a creamy-coloured skin you need to remove before eating the milky-white nut.

The nut is crunchy, slightly wet and delicous. Apart from tasting great it feels like its doing you good. You become addicted to them. Rupert was breaking open the hulls with a stone as fast as he could but it wasn’t fast enough.

Mid-way though our almond feast I heard the sound of a car I recognised. It was the postman. He stopped to give me my weekly copy of Elle Magazine and we poured some almonds into his post-bag for him to take home. He wasn’t impressed with Rupert’s almond-opening method and told us in great detail how we should open them with a knife.

This is one of the nice things about living in France. Everyone has an opinion on what to do with food; where to buy or grow it, how to cook it, when to eat it, what to eat it with. It shows what a priority it is, which I find extremely civilised.

Though I’m sure no one would deny that going to school on an apricot from your own garden is one of the finest ways to start a day.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

When I was in London last I met Heathcliff’s wife. You may remember Heathcliff. He was the first love of my life and we were recently put in touch through a mutual friend. I have yet to see him again after more than 20 years but I have met the mother of his three children.

She happened to be having lunch in the same restaurant as the above-mentioned mutual friend and I. The friend, being rather mischievous, called her over and introduced us. He didn’t let on that I knew Heathcliff years ago and had been desperately in love with him.

So what did I think of this woman who ended up with the man I wasted more time dreaming about than I care to remember? It was slightly uncanny because she looked very similar to him; dark hair, fine features. She seemed rather cold, but attractive, and had a very deep sexy voice (rather like his). At one stage he called and they chatted like wives and husbands do. She called him darling and told him what train she’d be home on and not to forget someone’s gym kit. Just a normal domestic scene but I found it hard to grasp that that was Heathcliff on the phone being someone’s husband and father. To me I suppose he is still 19 and getting high in nightclubs.

Apparently his wife didn’t think much of me. “She was rather tartily dressed,” my source tells me she reported to Heathcliff. Tartily dressed indeed. I was wearing jeans, flat shoes (Tod’s, natch), a Sonia Rykiel strappy top and a Hobbs cardigan. Hardly play-boy bunny kit.

At first I was furious, but then I remembered that she’s meant to be a lesbian. So maybe tartily dressed is a good thing?

Meanwhile my youngest daughter Bea has me sussed. “This is mummy,” she announced this morning. “She goes to the shop and comes back with lots of bread which she puts in the freezer. Then she takes it out. But it’s too hard to eat so she feeds it to the ducks.”

Maybe I should stop by the river on the way home from the bakery; cut out the middleman?

Thank you all for your lovely comments and reviews as per yesterday’s blog. I hope that miserable onion is really bitter now s/he’s almost been pushed off the amazon page.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Below is a review that someone has written about Two Lipsticks and a Lover. I am appalled by it and can only assume this is a frustrated and angry (read unpublished) author in disguise or someone with an unexplained loathing for half-Italian women who live in France. Janine di Giovanni by the way is a heroic journalist who covers the most horrifying war zones and has written several books about them.

Please could those of you who have enjoyed Two Lipsticks click on this link and write a review? I just can’t have this unfair tirade as the only opinion on my book.

And remind me to put onions on my list of pet hates…..

je ne pense pas, 19 Jun 2007 By onion (London, UK) - See all my reviews gosh I think this book must have got published by mistake. Sloppy, cliched, misogynistic, and deeply deeply tedious. I’m not sure what it is about the French that seems to bring out the crapness in journalists but this is a great example (see also Janine di Giovanni etc etc)

In the film Amelie, each character is introduced with a list of what they hate and what they like. As I reversed the car up the drive today it occurred to me that the things we hate remain pretty much the same throughout our lives. For instance, ever since I could drive I have hated reversing and I have hated parking. This is now as likely to change as my ability to do either is.

Other pet hates include:

Letters from the bank (even if I have some money in my account they make me nervous)

Peeling tomatoes

Anything under my nails

Trousers that are too tight

Sore feet

Policemen looking at me (99.9% of the time I am totally innocent, but I feel guilty as hell)

Being late

Missing the beginning of a film or a play

Discussing commuting options at dinner parties

Anchovies

People opening my newspaper before I’ve had a chance to read it

Doors slamming

Hair in the wrong places

Broken nails

Being too cold

Being woken up

And last, but not least, lice. (I am pleased to report that the situation is now under control. I feel rather like Maggie during the Falkland’s War, although my enemy is possibly more dangerous and certainly closer to home. Thank you all for your suggestions.)

I will work on a list of likes for the near future. Starting with driving forwards.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

If you don’t have children you have probably never had to deal with head-lice. They are more irritating than unwanted house-guests and seem to stay longer. My step-daughter first got them aged five and is only now (aged 13) finally getting rid of them.

But now my children have them. And of course I have caught them too. I thought they would be put off by Rodolfo Valentin’s exquisite infusions, but no, they love them.

As any head-lice enemy will know the most effective way to get them out is by pouring conditioner on your hair and combing them out. Of course with hair extensions this is no longer an option. So I will have to find someone willing to pick them out, which could be tricky. It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase nit-picking.

I have become a woman possessed. I can’t see one of my children’s heads without pouncing on them and picking out lice. Yesterday Leonardo and I spent a happy hour on the terrace while I picked out his head-lice and he ran them over with his yellow toy Mercedes.

But that is the only upside to them and frankly it’s just not enough. I have heard that there is an electric gun you buy that zaps them. If anyone knows where you can get it from; please advise. Electrocuting them could be even more fun than running them over.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Today is Olivia’s birthday. She is eight. It is hard to believe that eight years ago today I was at the Crowborough birthing centre, lying in a tepid bath saying to my friend Doc “this really hurts.” Oh the naivety of first-time mothers who shun drugs. Doc (being a doctor) should have warned me. But all she came equipped with was a huge amount of patience and a Crunchie bar. Still it was lovely to have her there, although for the first time in my life I refused a Crunchie bar.

Anyway, so far she is very happy. She has had some presents; she is particularly pleased with the bubble-machine gun, and has decided to come home for lunch alone sending her siblings to the school canteen. This afternoon she has a party with 15 guests, face-painting and a large raspberry mousse cake.

The problem is now to keep her siblings happy. Leonardo is livid that she has had presents and he has had none. And it’s no use trying to explain that next month when it’s his birthday he’ll have presents. “Where are my presents?” he keeps wandering around the house wailing. Bea is a little jollier, mainly because her new love from school is coming to the party.

I have decided that the only way to deal with potential stress situations like ones incurred by birthdays is to laugh. This is a valuable lesson learnt from my mother-in-law. She and my father-in-law were flying back after spending the weekend in Paris. The plane stopped and my father-in-law, keen to get to the golf course, stood up to get out. The Frenchman sitting in the aisle seat though obviously doesn’t play golf and sat still, notwithstanding the fact that the fasten seat-belt sign had been switched off. My father-in-law started huffing and puffing.

“Ho ho ha ha ha,” said my mother-in-law, as she’d been taught at our laughter yoga class (see below post). “Ho ho ha ha ha.”

My father-in-law started laughing and the whole situation turned from one of stress to one of general hilarity.

So when there are 15 children here later on today, all weeping because they haven’t won the pass-the-parcel or have been bashed by someone or have sat on their raspberry cake I shall remember my mother-in-law and laugh.

At least that’s the plan….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

There are many things I worry about. Not fitting into a size 10 pair of trousers, going for a swim in someone’s pool and leaving one of my hair extensions in it, upsetting the few relations that are still speaking to me by writing about them, grey hair in all the wrong places (see naked in the rain post), not sleeping through the night, conjugating French verbs in front of my children’s friends. But last night I was faced with the ultimate threat.

At 10.30pm Leonardo was still not in bed. Well, he’d been in bed about ten times but was out again.

“Get me my car,” he demanded, pointing at a yellow toy Mercedes.

“Get it yourself,” I told him.

A look of fury came over his face. The vein on his neck that swells when he gets angry started to grow.

“Ggggget it for me now,” he yelled (he tends to stutter when really riled). “Or or or I will never call you Spider-Man-Girl again.”

Now I’m scared……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007