“Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds; and until we know what has been or will be the peculiar combination of outward with inward facts, which constitute a man’s critical actions, it will be better not to think ourselves wise about his character.”

To many, George Eliot’s words will have a particular resonance as we watch the McCann drama unfold. I am glad to see so many comments on the previous blog, but I will not be swayed. I stick to my original conclusions; to quote the waitress in Thelma & Louise when asked who she thinks shot the man in the parking lot “neither of those two was the murdering kind”.

Of course I have no evidence. All I have is my own belief that I am a good enough judge of character and events to recognise a huge miscarriage of justice when I see it. If I believe that Kate and Gerry McCann murdered Maddy I may as well give up. If they are guilty then the world is a far worse place than I imagined.

I am happy to see them back home and hope that they will find some comfort in returning, albeit without their little girl. I can’t imagine what they will feel when they walk into her bedroom. But I am glad to see this latest debacle seems only to have made them stronger and brought them closer together as a family. Yet more evidence of their good character.

On a lighter note, here is a comment from Leonardo yesterday to his father as he got in the car.

“I love this car,” he said. “I love you daddy. I love Granny. I love everyone.”

What a splendid character he is.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

“She did it,” a friend of mine living in Surrey just told me on the phone. “Kate McCann is guilty. You should take that Madeleine thing off your blog. No one around here believes she is innocent.”

Kate McCann has been hurled into a Kafkaesque nightmare. First her beloved daughter disappears. Now she is a suspect in that disappearance. If my friend is right she has been cynically clutching that bunny since May 3rd. She has duped us all. She is a better actress than Kiera Knightley (a lot better). And my faith in human nature will be forever dented.

I just don’t believe it. I know much has been made of the fact that they’re a nice middle-class family and that’s why we never suspected them, but middle-class or not, these are parents who clearly love their children. Kate and Gerry McCann look and come across as decent, hard-working, kind, intelligent individuals. Not child murderers.

So now Kate has been questioned for 11 hours and there is more of the same to come. Not only has she lost her daughter, she has lost her freedom. She must be going through total hell. Maybe even her husband suspects her now. What is all this doing to their relationship?

Purely on a practical level it is inconceivable that Kate McCann went to the apartment, murdered Madeleine, disposed of the body and was still back at the Tapas bar five minutes later raising the alarm. On an emotional and human level it is even more impossible. I think it’s more likely that a bungling police force is looking for a scapegoat. And the fact that they have gone public with their strange suspicions is outrageous.

I can’t believe this already tragic tale is now even more horrific for the people involved, whatever the outcome of this latest twist.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

At the Venice film festival a couple of days ago a young woman did what most of us have been yearning to do for years; pounce on Brad Pitt. As he walked down the red carpet she threw her arms around him and hugged him. Brad was not impressed; she says she has no regrets.

The Daily Mail of course called her a “crazed female fan”. Seems saner than most to me. Crazy would be to let him walk past without lunging.

Ever since I first saw him in those Levi 501s in Thelma & Louise (possibly the greatest film ever made and not just because Brad is in it) I have been in love with Brad Pitt. When my husband asked me to marry him I promised to be faithful. “Unless Brad Pitt seduces me,” I added. My husband saw this as an unlikely enough event to agree to my proviso.

I remember going to see A River Runs Through It at the Fulham cinema years ago with three other girlfriends. We sat in the front row and sighed every time he graced the screen. He was so beautiful it was almost painful to watch him.

Now of course he’s gone off a bit. The floppy blond hair has gone mousey and short. And he does seem to have a penchant for facial hair in strange places.

But to a whole generation of women like me he will always be one of the sexiest men ever. “There he goes,” says Thelma as he walks off in his 501s. “I love to watch him go.” Amazing that he was in that film for a total of 14 minutes but none of us ever forgot him.

So well done you crazy Italian, next time give him a kiss from me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I find myself in the Hotel Amour in the red light district of Paris. My room is called the Library room, the far wall is lined with French porn books and magazines. The remaining walls are painted black and the only piece of furniture in the room is a large double bed.

I have not run off for a dirty weekend with some porn-obsessed Frenchman. I am with Rupert who is writing a series of Paris hotel reviews for the Times. Today we leave our den of iniquity and head for a hotel without naked women on the walls.

Last night we ventured out into the surrounding red light district. As we walked past yet another sex shop Rupert commented that there is something deeply unsexy about sex shops. I agree. They are cheap looking, badly designed, badly lit and full of unsavory characters. In fact I don’t really understand the point of porn. In our hotel there are tasteful black and white photos of naked women on the walls as you go up the stairs. They look quite sexy. If they were pornographic they would not be. It’s like that old saying that using the feather is sexy, using the whole chicken is perverted.

Maybe it’s an age thing, but I was in no way tempted to go into any of the sex shops we saw, even the one that rather intriguingly offered to cater for lesbians, homosexuals and amateurs.

There is no doubt about which category I fall into.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell