Some amazing news today. Apparently Brad Pitt has been house-hunting in the Languedoc. Unlike most of us who do our house-hunting on the internet, Brad has been flying over the region in a helicopter and when he spots a pad he likes the look of, he lands and asks if it’s for sale.

As you can imagine since I heard this news four hours ago I have been in a state of high alert. I am not going to risk a bad hair second, let alone day, in case Brad takes a shine to our house lands here. My nails are painted, my underwear is matching (rather optimistic but you never know). As my husband told the friend of ours who broke the news. “If Brad lands on our lawn he’ll get more than he bargained for.”

You may remember from a previous blog that when I promised to be faithful to my husband I put in Brad as my one caveat.

My weekly supermarket shop suddenly became very exciting as I thought Brad might be in the next aisle. Well? Even film stars have to eat. And I know for a fact they sell peanut butter there, which no American can live without for more than five minutes.

The news that Brad may be my new neighbour is extremely exciting. If he does land on our lawn I might even have to pretend to sell my house to him, although now he’s moving into the region I’ve no desire to move at all.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Here follows a conversation between my husband and my son as they lay in bed this morning chatting:

“You’ve got very big arms and you’re very strong. Are you scared of anything?”

“Mummy.”

“Mummy’s not scary. She’s not a witch.”

“What about her cloak and broomstick?”

“Poor Mummy. She’s lovely.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I have always admired Aung San Suu Kyi. She is not only one of the world’s most elegant and beautiful women, but also one of the most selfless and determined. Here is a woman who could have lived as a free woman with her husband and sons. Instead she chose to continue the struggle for Burmese democracy her father began. She won a general election by a landslide in 1990 but was placed under house arrest and the military took power.

She has had to watch her sons grow up from afar and make the most difficult choice of not returning to England to see her husband one last time before he died of prostate cancer. The military regime told her she would not be allowed to return to Burma if she left. She has no control over her life, cannot see whom she wishes, they even stopped her playing her piano at one stage. But throughout she has been calm, dignified and pragmatic. And every day she wears fresh flowers in her hair.

The uprising in Burma needs global support. And much as I applaud Gordon Brown for speaking out early sanctions are not going to help. What is needed is for the whole world to put pressure on China and India, two states the Burmese junta seem to listen to. They don’t give a monkeys what we think of them and the military leaders will not be short of food, it is the people who will suffer, as always. We should threaten to boycott the Olympics in China unless the Chinese act now.

The sight of Buddhist monks walking gracefully in unified protest through the streets of Rangoon is moving and powerful. But I fear instead of poise and dignity we will soon be seeing blood and violence. Although monks have a revered status in Burma this brutal regime will stop at nothing to hold on to power; power which it snatched from Aung San Suu Kyi and which the world community must now help her to regain for the good of her country and her people.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

We got back yesterday evening from a perfect press trip. I did write and tell you all about it but the blog seems to have vanished. I can only assume the tourist board of the Var, keen to avoid yet more visitors to the magical islands of Porquerolles and Port-Cros somehow managed to infiltrate my blog and delete it. Anyway, to sum up, it was totally perfect. Lots of sunshine, sea, sand, and not a PR person in sight. The only PR I saw a lot of was Pale Rose.

Then we came home. It started well. “Did you have a nice sleep?” was Leo’s first question. But then it went pear-shaped. Children, rather like animals, will punish you if you go away. The parental truth is that much as you NEED to get away in order to remain married, they don’t care. I mean they care about you remaining married but they don’t care what takes you away, they don’t like it.

They bickered and fought and pushed each other off the trampoline and argued and wept and generally behaved as badly as was humanly possible until it was time for bed.

But I was prepared for this. I had three days to prepare for this. And rather like a terrible hangover after a fantastic party I have to conclude that it was worth it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am back from a two-day whirlwind trip to London. The launch party for Ciao Bella was much more fun than Hell’s Kitchen, although that wouldn’t be too difficult. It even made it into the Peter Kay column of the Daily Mail, albeit a tiny story, right at the bottom of the page, that you need a magnifying glass to spot.

The big news this moring is that Jose Mourinho has left Chelsea. This may not matter to most of you, but for us it’s the end of an era. Rupert is an avid Chelsea fan and the children have become fans too.

“Who will take over?” I asked as I brought Rupert his morning tea.

“I will,” replied Olivia. “I’m good at football.”

In my view she has the attributes a tough manager of a world-famous football club needs. Yesterday she and her father went for a picnic on some mountains behind our house. It is a rough terrain and a steep walk. She complained on the way up but once there was delighted and suggested they spend the night. A more inhospitable mattress than the charred water-starved grass round here would be hard to find. But that didn’t worry her. In the end though she decided against staying. Why?

“We don’t have our pyjamas.”

On their way home they stopped at the local goat’s farm to get some milk. It was taking rather a long time, and Rupert started to get ratty.

“Don’t be so impatient like I am,” said Olivia.

So she is also aware of her faults. What more do you need for the job?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I knew we’d arrived in Hell when I saw Tara Palmer-Tomkinson teetering about with a glass of cheap champagne on improbably high heels.

We were in a semi-marquee where there was a make-shift bar and Z-list celebs waiting to be ushered into Hell’s Kitchen. There was no door.

“I thought hell was meant to be hot,” said Mary.

A production assistant came up to us.

“You see, the thing is,” she said in that Estuary voice favoured by TV production assistants. “I can’t find you anywhere on our list.”
I thought briefly about strangling her, or pushing my way past security and strangling Marco, but instead I told her to go and strangle Marco and tried to stop my teeth from chattering for long enough to drink my champagne (which by the way I had to dilute with cranberry juice to make it taste better).

Our surroundings were not salubrious. They were, frankly, pretty shabby. And freezing cold.

After another half an hour we were told we could go in but would have to share a table with another couple and it would be quite a squeeze as it was a table designed for two. Talk about star-treatment. So in we walked.

“And we’re on air between 9 and 10.30 so try not to walk around,” added the production assistant.

“I’m not going anywhere else in these shoes,” said Mary. As she said that she stopped dead. In fact she wasn’t going anywhere as her heel was caught in the grill by the door to the set. There was no budging it. Three burly security guards tried but were worried they would snap the heel off.

“I knew these shoes would be the star of the show,” said Mary.

Eventually a pair of pliers was found and the heel extracted.

Our dinner companions were a charming young couple. Jeff had just signed a big deal with Marco for Unilever.
The dinner was less charming. After a long wait the courses came thick and fast. So thick and fast that you didn’t have time to finish one before the other arrived. The food was mediocre but we were told that originally they were just planning canapés for last night so we were lucky to be fed at all.

We weren’t interviewed at all (and why not I ask myself, we were by far the most interesting and attractive people in the room) but when Mary snuck to the look to call her husband he confirmed that her hair was on TV. After dinner a totally charmless security guard walked around shouting at everyone to clear out. We were only saved by Marco’s appearance.

Afterwards there was an “exclusive” party. This was about as exclusive as an event in a student bar and had all the same charming elements like plastic glasses and people dressed as if they were about to go camping. I was longing to get out as soon as possible. We tried to get a taxi. After waiting almost an hour we were told there was no hope. We looked out into the pouring rain and wind. In the distance I spotted a familiar car. Marco’s driver was there. We piled into his car with a sigh of relief. There was heating, comfortable seats and no Tara Palmer-Tomkinson.

Next time someone asks me to go on a reality TV show, remind me to say no.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am not a big fan of reality TV shows, but as this one involves dinner cooked by a three-star Michelin chef and his two remaining celebrities, I am going.

I doubt very much I will even get on camera, unless of course I dare to complain about the food or trip over on my way to my table.
The logistics of getting to and from my table has been worrying me. Especially as I will be wearing high heels. It would be excruciating to fall flat on my face but possibly good publicity for the paperback of Ciao Bella which I am going to London to launch.
My dinner date at Hell’s Kitchen is Mary, who lives down the road from me in France. She and I have been planning outfits for the past three months and I think we’ve just about got them sorted. Mary is particularly pleased with her leopard-print high-heeled shoes, though quite how we’re going to get Hell’s Kitchen presenter Angus Deayton to notice them and share their splendour with the nation I’m not sure.

I will keep you posted on our progress.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

So the police in Portugal are now making the contents of Kate McCann’s diary public. In it she says she is struggling to cope with three young children and that her husband leaves most of the housework to her. They are citing this as a possible motive for sedating, and accidentally killing, young Maddy.

Mothers do not in general sedate their children. They cope. Whenever mine get really bad I think back to what my grandfather once said: “You wouldn’t want children who just sat in a corner and did nothing, would you?”

As for the husband issue – well, this is not the first time I have heard a woman complain about her husband and it certainly won’t be the last. Mothers of young children are by definition tired, harassed and busy. But they know that and they deal with it. Kate McCann was dealing with it. If I kept a diary I would probably complain about my husband and children on a daily basis. As it is I don’t, my poor unfortunate friends have to listen to me instead. But my point is this, complaining about your children does not make you a murderer.

I hear the next thing they’re going to take is Madeleine’s little Cuddle Cat that Kate has been clutching to for comfort over the past few months. How cruel can you get? Will someone please put a stop to this farce?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I have always prided myself on the fact that Rupert and I have never had an argument in front of the children. I think after almost 10 years of marriage this is incredibly good going. But, I’m sorry to report, parental truth number six is that you will, at some stage, argue with your spouse in front of your children. And a few nights ago, I did.

I won’t go into the details. Obviously I was totally, 100 % right and he was impossibly wrong. But the reaction of the children was not as I had imagined.

After about three minutes Olivia started to cry, which then set the other two off. I felt like a wicked witch and we immediately stopped arguing. A little later on, Olivia told me she didn’t like us arguing.

“I don’t like it either darling,” I replied. “But you three argue all the time, now you see how hateful it is.”

“Yes,” she said. “But we can’t split up.”

Fair comment I suppose. Then came Bea’s reaction, as she flounced past me in her cute little swimming costume.

“If you two split up, I’m not living with either of you.”

We have been warned.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am ill. I have a temperature, a very sore throat and I ache everywhere, mainly in what feels like my kidneys but I can’t be sure. I hate being ill and am not a good patient. I am short-tempered, grumpy and feel terribly sorry for myself. To make matters worse the cat jumped on me at 5am so instead of sleeping through until maybe 8, I have to suffer another three hours of this ghastly virus.

I had an email from a retired Brigadier about the column in Sunday’s Sunday Times. It cheered me up enormously. I told the Brigadier (retired) that he had made me laugh on an otherwise pretty miserable day. I told him I was going to toast him with a glass of rose and hope that banished the illness. This was his response:

Vin Rosé. Non. My second in command Col Aylmer Bulstrode caught the virus whilst we were attending to the drains in Aden. The cure is to take to your bed, preferably a four poster. Place a top hat or something similar on the footpost, lie down clutching an opened bottle of whisky and imbibe regularly until you appear to see two hats. Then slumber, when you awake the virus will be gone and you merely have to cope with a monstrous hang over.

Fortuitously I have a four-poster bed. Now I just need to find a hat and some whisky. I may be some time…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007