Olivia and I have been listening to a CD of African music. One of the songs begins with a quote from Nelson Mandela. “I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if it needs be it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die,” he says.
Yesterday was the unveiling of a statue of the great man himself in London’s Parliament Square. I was thrilled to be able to show him to Olivia, who has found the concept of dying for an ideal a little hard to understand, as well as the 27 years he spent in prison. “27 years?” she exclaimed. “That’s more than my life. No, that’s much older than me. I wouldn’t want that thank you very much.”

What struck me as I watched the news coverage of Nelson and other “dignitaries” including Gordon Brown and Red Ken was just how dignified he is and how undignified they are. This is a man who really was willing to die for his principles and who sacrificed 27 years of his life in prison for them. And it shows in his face and comportment. I can’t imagine our politicians today sacrificing a weekend for much, although Gordon Brown did very generously cut short his summer holiday in Dorset this year to deal with a national security alert. I suspect he was secretly relieved to get out of the rain and back to town.

I am on my way to London now and hope to see the new statue. Maybe it will inspire future generations of politicians as they walk past it. Let’s hope so, we need more Nelsons.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I have a new ironing lady. She is around four foot tall and very pretty but she refuses to do the sheets or put the clothes away. If I ever complain about the quality of her ironing she shoots me a stern look and tells me to be quiet.

My new ironing lady is Olivia who since we went to England has discovered money and is now obsessed with earning it. So at the end of a long summer holiday I have put her to work. She gets five euros a week for doing all the washing and another eight for all the ironing.

She is not doing a bad job, her work ethic is impeccable. But she does keep trying to re-negotiate her rate upwards. ‘The Countess de Money’, a friend of mine nick-named her in England. When I suggested the other day that she might like to become President of France when she grows up she asked “how much money do you get?”

Bea, not wanting to be left out, asked me what she could do to earn some money. I told her she could be in charge of making sure there are no toys lying around the garden and that all the towels are hung up by the pool and there are no clothes left on the ground there.

I watched from my sun-lounger (amazingly comfortable, why I haven’t spent more time on it is beyond me) as she rather grumpily tidied up her brother’s shoes, Rupert’s socks, the pool toys and empty cups left lying around.

“I’ve finished,” she said after half an hour. “Can I have my five euros?” I told her she had to work for a week.

“Why does it have to be a week?” she wailed, before adding. “And what do you do all day?”

Good question.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I once read somewhere that when children start killing children it is the end of the world. In Liverpool last week an 11-year-old-boy was gunned down as he played in a park, apparently by a 13-year-old youth.

When I was in England last week it seemed that every day someone was murdered for standing up to yobs. One day it was a talented student who reprimanded some yob for throwing litter. Another day it was a man trying to protect his car. A columnist in the Daily Mail described how his whole street is scared to go out after 9pm because of the yobs who hang out in the park opposite their house. Daily Mail hacks are not easily scared, it must be bad.

How has this happened? Perhaps our armed forces should be brought back from Iraq and Afghanistan to restore order and civility to our streets? It seems the police are powerless. When my father-in-law was the victim of yob-like behaviour recently the only thing they were interested in was how old he is. They simply couldn’t have cared less about the crime itself.

On a lighter note I am pleased to report that my children are showing true feminist instincts. Last night we were watching Mean Girls with Lindsay Lohan. She is in love with what she calls a “hot boy” and pretends to be bad at maths so he can help her. In truth she is better at maths than him.

“I wouldn’t pretend to be stupid for some hot boy,” said Olivia. “I would just find another one.”

“So would I,” said Bea.

“Me too,” said Leonardo. Bless him.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Last night at dinner Olivia asked Leo and Bea how many children they were going to have.

“Three,” said Bea. “Called Manon, Rupert and Helena.”

“What if you have three boys?” asked Olivia

“Doesn’t matter,” said Bea.

Leo rather worryingly announced he was going to have 34 “childrens” as he calls them. The questions then progressed to a quiz which proved a fascinating insight into their little minds. Olivia, of course, was quiz-master.

Olivia: Leo Wright, is it better to be Spiderman or to have a Ferrari?

Leo: To have a Ferrari.

Olivia: Right answer! Now, what is the nicest animal in the world?

Leo: Horses.

Olivia: Wrong answer! Bea?

Bea: Sheeps.

Olivia: That’s the right answer! Now, what is the best thing for you that you can eat?

Leo: Apples.

Olivia: Wrong answer. Bea?

Bea: Is it drinking?

Olivia: No, it’s fruit. Now Leo, what is the best country in the world?

Leo: Is this the London question? I want the London question. (The London question is what is the capital of England).

Olivia: I want gets nothing.

Bea: Italy?

Olivia: Wrong!

Me: Is the answer England?

Olivia: No, there is one that is a little bit better, it’s Sweden because you have POP and Hennes. (Both clothes shops, there’s nothing superficial about my children). Now what is the word we should be saying the whole time?

Leo: Ketchup.

Olivia: Wrong! Bea?

Bea: Please and thank you.

Olivia: Is the correct answer. Well done Bea, you won!

So there we have it. The right answer is to live in Sweden, surrounded by sheep(s), eat fruit, say please and thank you and drive a Ferrari.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Here is one of my favourite poems by Dorothy Parker:

By the time you swear you’re his,

Shivering and sighing,

And he vows his passion is

Infinite, undying

Lady, make a note of this:

One of you is lying.

The reason this came to mind today was not that I have shivering or indeed sighing in some lothario’s arms. No, I have been being a full-time mother. And after just half a day it strikes me that one lie we all live with is that looking after a home and children is a doddle compared with working all day.

This is the typical scene. Man gets up to go to work. Woman makes his breakfast, feeds and dresses the children, he dresses himself (in shirts she has ironed), goes off to the office where he may have some stressful moments and he may not. Then he comes home to a home-cooked dinner, kisses the children goodnight and watches the football until turning in.

What you can be sure of if you’re looking after children all day is that you WILL have stressful moments (as well as some fun ones of course). I have just managed to escape for five minutes to my desk and it feels like a haven. Upstairs anything could be demanded of me from wiping bottoms to acting as peace envoy to avoid any (more) blood spilling.

When we were at my mother’s house in Devon I took on the role normally allocated to men, that of main bread-winner and worker. I worked while she looked after the children. She washed and ironed. I shopped and paid for it. She took the children to the park, I wrote a few emails. There is no doubt at all that of the two I had the easier job. In fact I can’t think of a job that would be tougher than looking after children, except perhaps mining or long-distance lorry driving across Siberia.

So if your husband comes home today and grumbles that he’s had a tough time in the office here’s what you should do. Hand him the kids and say ‘welcome to my world honey’. Then go and lie down for half an hour, you deserve it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

My mother has lived in Devon for almost twenty years but moves to Italy in September. I am sad not to have a reason to come here any more. Despite the dreadful weather (the sun has been out for a total of seven minutes during the last four days which I believe is a record for August, normally it just rains non-stop) I love it here.

I love the countryside, the people, the sheeps (as the children call them), the cows and the fact that everything is so green. I love the little winding roads, the mossy woods, the small streams and the hedgerows.

One of the best things about the trip has been walking around the lanes with the children. Leo has become addicted to blackberries and there is nothing quite as romantic for a girl brought up in England as the sight of her blond son stuffing blackberries in his mouth. On a par with the blueberries in Sweden. What is it with me and dark-coloured berries?

The other evening, when the sun was briefly visible, we lay in a field on our plastic macs and gazed at the view. There were green rolling hills and three large oak trees in a field that looked as if they’d been there for hundreds of years and probably will for hundreds of years to come.

As I drove back from my daily trip to M&S this morning I realised that this would probably be the last time I ever do that drive which made me very sad. Unless of course the Tiverton Film Festival becomes a reality and they make Ciao Bella into a film which has its premiere here. I wonder which is more likely?

My mother had a leaving party last night. It was a great do with lots of food, music and good friends. Leo summed it up so well as we fell into bed around midnight. “They were so nice, the peoples,” he said. I think my mother will miss them, but maybe some of them will find their way to Umbria to visit.

Meanwhile my friendly spy has revealed what Heathcliff thought of me after seeing me again twenty years on. He thinks I am a very nice person (don’t you just hate that?) but he doesn’t fancy me. The reason? “She’s too thin.” I like him more than ever.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

When I was a little girl, my mother and I lived in a small village close to Uppsala in Sweden. Our flat was above a cinema called the Red Mill. I went to every film that was shown (even if they were 18s, no one seemed to mind). It was there I saw unforgettables like The Omen (I am still terrified of black labradors) and Grease. My mother was less enthusiastic. Even now if someone asks her if she’s seen a film she often replies; “No, but I’ve heard it.”

So maybe I have a particlularly romantic attachment to cinemas. But I am heartbroken to hear that the Tiverton Tivoli is going to close. Last night we went there to see Shrek The Third. The Tivoli is what I call a proper cinema where you get proper popcorn (ie not in bags or doused with toffee) and the same person who sells you the tickets comes in with a tray of ice-creams after the ads as the words INTERMISSION flash up in old-fashioned writing on the big screen.

The children love it. “This is the best cimena,” they all agreed. For some reason cinema is a word they cannot pronounce.

They have been showing films at the Tiverton Tivoli since 1932. Now of course the land is so valuable the owners would make much more money selling it for housing. In nine days’ time the lease expires and I fear the cimena is doomed.

There is some hope that an independent cinema chain will step in, but not much. This is just the kind of thing I would step in and save if I were a multi-millionaire. Maybe you could even create a Tiverton Film Festival. Now there’s a thought. Forget Cannes and Venice, Tiverton is where it’s at.

Anyone interested in helping please visit www.savethetivoli.co.uk

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

One of my favourite films ever is Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It is the only reason Olivia was originally named Holly. Once we moved to France we changed her name. In fact I had doubts straight after the initial euphoria of the birth. And in French Holly sounds like an invitation to go to bed.

One of the things I love about Breakfast at Tiffany’s is the feeling Holly Golightly has when she is in the shop. “Nothing bad can ever happen to you at Tiffany’s,” she says. Yesterday I too experienced that feeling, at Marks & Spencer in Bath.

I realise that in terms of glamour it’s not really right up there. But for some reason as soon as I walk into an M&S I feel calm and secure. The one in Bath is marvellous. Where else can you find blueberries, mixed seeds, pink underwear, over-sized rag dolls and goose-down pilows all under the same roof?

I seem to have passed this passion down to my children. Olivia came back from a trip to the Tiverton the other day raving about “a brilliant shop”. It wasn’t until she showed me the plastic bag that I realised she was talking about my Tiffany’s. Now she talks about little else.

I suppose it must be something to do with growing up in England that makes M&S so special to me. A bit like a grandparent it has always been there; reliable, comforting and reassuringly middle class.

Meanwhile life at my mother’s house is wonderful. I got back from Bath to find all my dirty clothes washed and ironed. It’s rather like living with myself.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

“Come to lunch,” he said. “My wife is away.”

Whereas when we last saw each other twenty years ago this might have been an invitation to spend the afternoon in bed, now that we’re middle-aged it was not my body Heathcliff was after, but my children. His wife being away he had to entertain his three somehow, and three children of a similar age sounded like a good idea.

So off we went with directions to his house, a few miles away from my mother’s. I won’t pretend I wasn’t nervous. I was. Heaven knows why. But seeing a man I last saw on my 21st birthday and was madly in love with for several years suddenly seemed very scary. A friend of mine said it was a stupid thing to do, that it would shatter my illusions and ruin the image of my first love. My mother said it was a good thing to do; dispel the myth once and for all (she never liked him).

I explained to the children who he was, how I was mad about him and that he never cared for me. “Why was he not in love with you?” asked Bea on the way there. “Weren’t you pretty enough? I think you’re very pretty with your long hair and bras with secret pockets.”

“Thank you darling,” I said, praying she wouldn’t mention the secret pockets to Heathcliff.

We arrived at his house and he came out to greet us. He looked, well, pretty good actually. Older,but really just the same. He was sweet, very welcoming, cooked home-made bolognese sauce as we gossiped about people we knew all those years ago.

I am sad to report though that Heathcliff showed about as much interest in me today as he did twenty years ago. In fact I don’t think he was any the wiser about me when we left at 5pm than he was when we showed up at 12.

The upside is he is mad about chocolate and is very good at making it. We tasted some truffles, they were divine. On the way home Olivia said she could still taste them.

His children were sweet. Rather gratifyingly his seven-year-old son fell in love with Olivia. What did she think of him?

“He’s far too ugly for me,” I heard her tell my mother. Revenge is even sweeter than a chocolate truffle.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Teenagers may not be much use around the house, but they’re brilliant at everything to do with mobile phones. I now have a choice of funky new ring tones, thanks to Julia. My husband says this is yet another manifestation of my mid-life crisis.

According to Wikipedia, the mid-life crisis lasts between three to ten years in men (perish the thought) and only two to five in women. The most common age for it to begin is 46. So unless I am precocious my new ring-tone is just a sign of general madness.

Researchers say that a male mid-life crisis is likely to be triggered by work and a female one by the onset of the menopause (yet again we draw the short straw). According to a mid-life crisis website I have been reading symptoms include depression, excessive consumption and alcohol abuse. I always thought symptoms were extra-marital affairs with younger men or women (or maybe both if you’ve got it really bad), driving convertible sports cars very fast and wearing unsuitably youthful clothes. How times have changed.

Must dash now, my phone is ringing. Actually it’s not ringing, it’s singing ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt’. Mid-life crisis – moi? Never.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007