Twenty-four hours is a long time in childcare. My husband is back, the kidney infection is in fact a trapped nerve and the children are being saints.

I can’t credit myself with their transformation. We have come to stay with our friends Norrie and Mary which seems to have done the trick.

Just as there’s nothing quite as horrendous as three children being horrible, there is also nothing quite as lovely as three children having fun and playing. Here they have lots to do. The rabbits, donkey, dogs, geese, chickens and ducks all need constant bossing about. Norrie and Mary are like the grandparents from heaven. “Go for a sleep,” they told us after lunch. “We’ll take the children for a walk.”

I didn’t even need my agv (see below) last night so have woken up feeling much better. I asked Rupert why he thought the children were so much nicer here than at home.

“They love it here,” he said, “and it’s different.” Rather like me in Harvey Nicks I suppose.

Today we head off with whichever children want to come (probably none) to Annecy. This is a town in the Savoie famous for looking a little like Venice where house prices are almost as high as in Paris.

Wherever I go I carry with me my box-set of the third series of Grey’s Anatomy. I am sorry to say this addiction has not been cured. Meredith is choosing between Finn the vet and Dr McDreamy at the moment.

“Who would you choose?” asked Bea.

“It’s a tricky one,” I said. “I don’t really know.”

“I would choose McDreamy,” said Bea. “Because he’s a doctor. And he’s dreamy.”

What more do you need?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

The school holidays have started. They have coincided with my husband being away (funny that) and a kidney infection. A better woman than me would have remained calm, collected and zen. I have never been grumpier.

“What’s work?” Olivia asked me yesterday. Well, you could define work as going down a mine for example, or being Chief Financial Officer of Barclays bank (for which you would be paid a basic salary of £600,000 and a bonus of £450,000). Or you could define work as looking after your children, for which no one will pay you. But you are expected to be eternally dedicated, grateful, patient etc.

Of course children can be a total joy and they are amazing as well as lovely, some of the time. My husband calls our children “our greatest creation” which I agree with. But for some reason half-term has turned ours into marauding lunatics, ready to kill each other at any given moment. They are not just bickering, they are violent. Yesterday the trampoline was the scene for a monumental battle between Bea and Leo. By the time I got there Bea was injured and weeping and Leo was stomping up towards the house shouting “she hurt me first”.

This goes on all day. They fight about who should sit where, who should go through a door first, who used the right crayon or the wrong one, who is allowed to look at Bea’s mermaid book, who should get in the bath, who should get out and so on. There is nothing too trivial to fight about.

By 6pm I am exhausted, depressed, angry and just about losing the will to live. So I down chilled Sauvignon Blanc at breakneck speed. By 6.20 I am on my second glass. By 6.40 I have lost count. I call it The Aperitif a Grande Vitesse. It works for me. Suddenly the arguing seems less irritating and anyway, it’s only an hour or so to go until bed. Then I can have a glass of red to celebrate.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Oh for goodness sake. Where will this all end? Halle Berry has had to issue a groveling apology because when she was shown a distorted image of herself where her nose was over-sized she exclaimed “I look like my Jewish cousin.”

“She must be punished,” says one reader in reaction to the article about the incident on the Daily Mail website. Oh please.

I am half-Swedish and half-Italian. Almost every time I tell people this they say (with an air of unconcealed disappointment) “oh, you don’t look very Swedish.” It is true, I don’t look remotely Swedish. As my Italian father pointed out when he first saw me after 12 years: “You’ve ended up with my looks and your mother’s brain; a most unfortunate way for things to turn out.”

But do I get offended if someone tells me I look Italian? I have brown eyes and brown hair. That is the Italian look. And no, it really doesn’t bother me if people point out that I look like an Italian as opposed to a Swede. It is true, just as it is true that a lot of people of Jewish descent have big noses. When did you ever see an actor playing Shylock with a small one? What is wrong with people? What is there to get offended about here? Why is having a big nose such a bad thing?

I despair at the political correctness we are forced to live with. It makes the world a really boring place where people are too frightened to speak for fear of upsetting someone. Halle Berry made a joke. But even she knew she would be in trouble so got the TV station to edit the word Jewish out of her sentence. Still news spread that she said it and everyone went crazy. How did we get so po-faced?

I’m with Peter from London, who also left a comment on the website. “Get over it. Nobody died.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

“It has been suggested to me that it would be an awesome achievement if we win,” Jonny Wilkinson wrote in his column on the morning of the world cup final. “But I just can’t allow myself to think that way now, I can’t think beyond today. Because if we lose, all we have done so far here means nothing…..All we have achieved here is a lot of work, no tangible success.”

Sorry to keep droning on about Jonny (this really is the last time, at least for a week) but is he right? It seems to me terribly unfair that they got all the way to final but because they lost that final they see the whole campaign as a waste of time and effort.

Nowhere else but sport does that happen. If you are short-listed for the Booker Prize for example, and don’t win, you still get to stick a sticker on your book saying ’short-listed for the Booker Prize’. But the England team won’t be wearing rugby shirts with ‘got to the World Cup final’ on them will they?

Meanwhile my thoughts have turned reluctantly from rugby to football. I am headhunting again. This time looking for a chief financial officer for Liverpool Football Club. This involves phoning up other CFOs at football clubs and hoping they would rather be in Liverpool than where they are. So far they wouldn’t, so if you have any ideas then let me know.

But back to Jonny – I am extremely proud of the England team’s massive achievement. However I think Jonny’s attitude is what makes a great sportsman; only winning is enough. As the American football coach Henry ‘Red’ Sanders said: “Sure, winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

Maybe with a middle name like Red he’d like a job at Liverpool? Except he’s dead. Oh well, nobody’s perfect. Except for Jonny, obviously.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

OK, so we lost, but it’s only a game.

You have my permission to kill anyone who says that. It’s not only a game, it’s the WORLD CUP and we lost, rather unfairly I think. I was in a bar full of French people supporting South Africa. Helllooooo??? Aren’t we all Europeans together? Apparently not. But we were gallant and Jonny was glorious. Percy Montgomerie doesn’t stand a chance. And what was that fall into the camera all about? “That’s Percy,” said a friend of mine who was watching with me. “He sees a camera and he throws himself at it.”

I propose a knighthood for Jonny and a permanent statue in Trafalgar Square. I will be designing a fountain with a vast statue of Jonny in the middle for our garden.

My scoop in today’s Sunday Times didn’t make it to the international edition but you can read it here. You can also read my seminal piece about Jonny in the news pages (since when was the fact that we all love Jonny “news”?). Someone at the paper put some stupid joke about the Aussies and All Blacks in the middle of my text which they got wrong, making me look like one of those awful women who talk about rugby but know nothing. Which of course I am. And they messed about with our scoop, making up some drivel about a lavender garden and cutting out the brilliant neighbour completely. I can see why people hate journalists. But as I have experienced this weekend, it’s often the editors or subs that make stuff up, not us.

Meanwhile I am pleased to report that Olivia is showing signs of becoming a true French woman. She sent her first text to me today. “Olivia + Quentin,” it read. “Darling,” I said. “How sweet, your first ever text. I’ll keep it forever.”

“Don’t keep it forever,” she responded. “I might get another boyfriend.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Rupert and I have just been to Albi, covering a murder trial. I won’t go into all the details here as am about to collapse after two days hard work but what it taught me is how much fun old-fashioned reporting can be.

I started off thinking the man was guilty, mainly based on newspaper stories I found on the internet. The fact that he looks like a sinister character from a Dickens novel doesn’t help either.

I spoke to the dead wife’s best friend, a charming lady, and was even more convinced of the rotter’s guilt. Then I met more people and heard their side of the story. Then I went to the lake where her body was found, and her house and suddenly it was no longer that easy. Neither Rupert nor I could understand how she could have ended up in that lake unaided.

Finally we met her neighbour. He was terrifying to start with. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. I could tell he was a hunting man by his cars and dogs and was slightly worried we might end up dead too. He huffed and puffed and then said: “If he did kill her he deserves a medal.” Then talked some more and eventually invited us in for coffee. It was one of those classic situations where just doing nothing gets you what you want.

My point is this. Nowadays it’s so easy as a journalist to rely on the internet. We all knock out stories without moving from our desks. But this was the real thing. We were Woodward and Bernstein in full flow. I felt like a proper journalist. One day a film will be made about us starring Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

It was all so exciting. Following the trail of the dead woman, talking to the people who loved and knew her. Discovering another side to her that was not revealed in court. And trying to work out how she ended up in that lake.

The article comes out in this week’s Sunday Times. I think we might write a book about the whole affair. An ‘In Cold Blood’ based in France profonde. Then maybe I can come out with Truman Capote’s immortal line: “When I think about how good this book is going to be I can hardly breathe.”

Even if I can’t, we might at least solve the mystery of the Lady in the Lake.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

As I sat reading my story in the Daily Telegraph this morning (see www.telegraph.co.uk) and seeing my book plugged at the end it occurred to me that humans are essentially dissatisfied creatures.

“I have just realised how lucky we are,” I said to Rupert. “We could have moved here and ended up in total oblivion.”

Five years ago a big spread in the Telegraph and a book published by the Random House Group was all I could dream about. Now that I have all that of course I want the Booker prize and a weekly column in most, if not all, newspapers. As well as my own TV show.

Is this a good or a bad thing? Is constant striving what creates progress? Even if it makes us dissatisfied as well? I think it probably is a good thing. If Shakespeare had just thought ‘oh well, I’ve written a couple of plays now and I think I’ll retire’ the world would be a less interesting place. Leonardo da Vinci could justifiably have stopped half-way through his career and still achieved more than most of the rest of the world put together.

I am not in any way comparing myself to those two greats, but what I am saying is that even if ambition can make you seem spoiled at times I think it’s fundamentally useful.

Sometimes though, it would be nice to be just content. On Sunday we took all the children to a park. Leo was with his best friend Louis. He was carrying a rugby ball, Louis was carrying a football. The park was full of slides and swings.

“Oh look Louis!” gasped Leo. “We’ve got everything what we need.”

“Yes Leo,” smiled Louis. “We have.”

At times it is useful to put ambition aside and realise how lucky you are. Especially now that England are in the final of the rugby world cup. But of course I now want them to win. By a large margin. And there was a time I would have been grateful just to beat the Aussies. See what I mean?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I woke up at 6am feeling terrible. Hardly surprising as I was drinking champagne at 2am.

“We won,” I said to Rupert.

“I want to read the French newspapers,” he said.

“I want to marry Jonny Wilkinson,” I replied.

“I do too,” said Rupert.

Never has a hangover been more welcome.

(Read my Sunday Times article about our victory over France.)

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

There is nothing quite like a note telling you it’s time for the school photo to send mothers into a tizzy. Planning for this event started several days ago with negotiations to get Olivia to agree to wear a brown and white dress. There are two reasons she doesn’t want to wear it. One is that the first love of her life, a blond called Quentin, likes “cool” girls and two, Bea is wearing the same one and she hates being the same as Bea.

Last night they all had their hair washed and conditioned. They had an early night to ensure there were no unsightly bags. I had an early night too, just in case I am caught on camera.

This morning the first thing Olivia did was of course march into our room and tell me she was not going to wear that dress. Then Leo came into our bed and Rupert ruffled his hair.

“You’ve made me not lovely any more,” he wailed and burst into tears. Then he insisted on having a bath and starting the hair-care regime all over again.

Bea was a dream. Up and singing and ready to have her hair curled by 8am. “I’m not wearing that dress,” said Olivia for the 100th time. “I’ll take you off my screen-saver and put Bea on it instead,” I said. Rather underhand I know, but it did the trick. “You’re so evil,” she said marching off to find the dress.

I realise now having done the school run that I have gone for totally the wrong look. Most of Leo’s class-mates have gel-induced mohicans. Not his best friend Louis I am pleased to report, he has a rather sophisticated Great Gatsby look.

But I suppose the most important thing is the smile, which we have been practising. Olivia has adopted a rather cool “photograph face” as my stepson Hugo calls it. Whenever you got to take a photo of him he says; “Wait, I don’t have my photograph face on yet” and then breaks into a huge smile. Bea just looks enormously sweet and Leo looks like the Antonio Banderas cat from Shrek when he wants something, all big eyes and a pleading expression.

I will share the results with you when we get them but I can now understand why Linda Evangelista refuses to get our of bed for less than $10,000 a day.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

With his famous book, the Age of Reason, published in 1795 Thomas Paine confirmed a new age; the age of enlightenment. If Thomas Paine were to write a book today he would probably call it The Age of Stupidity.

In it he would chart the relentless rise of reality TV, talk about hoodies taking over the streets of Britain and the celebrity culture that has gripped the inhabitants of this once proud and intelligent island.

I don’t know when it finally dawned on me that we have entered an age of stupidity – maybe I was a bit dim not to work it out sooner – but a number of cumulating factors have led me to this conclusion. Take this example. What do you suppose is Britain’s best-selling autobiography? Ghandi’s perhaps? Or Winston Churchill’s account of how he saved Britain – and the world – from Nazism? Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom? Wrong. It is the account of how a woman tripled her breast size and thus endeared herself to a nation. Yes, Jordan’s is the fastest-selling autobiography in British publishing history.

Being Jordan and Jordan: A Whole New World have sold almost 1.2 million copies in the UK over the past five years. Churchill’s has sold just over 5,000. I looked at one of her autobiographies in a book shop once, just to see what all the fuss was about. I no longer remember which one, but it all started with a cat-fight and the unforgettable line, er actually I’ve forgotten, but it was something along the lines of ‘don’t you come creeping up to me you bitch, I know what the f*** you’ve been saying behind my back.’

Truly gripping stuff. I see her novel is in the best-seller list too.

So I am now faced with a dilemma. When I was in London last I had a life-changing moment. A publisher approached me at a party and said; “I think you should write a novel.” This to me was the equivalent of someone telling the England rugby team they are going to beat France on Saturday. Ever since I was little girl I have wanted to (and tried to) write novels. So once I have sent off the edited To Hell in High Heels on Monday, I will begin to realise this life-long ambition.

The dilemma is, do I write something I want to write or something I think will sell in this Age of Stupidity? Am I prepared to dumb down? No is the answer of course. But I shall probably remain a penniless writer while Jordan sips pink champagne before breakfast and has her numerous pools cleaned by Jonny Wilkinson look-alikes.

Perhaps I am the one being truly stupid, retaining a normal breast-size and trying to write relatively good books?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007