Before I start my rant, for those of you who noticed I was missing, I am sorry. The server had to changed for reasons I am not clever enough to understand. For those of you who didn’t, where the hell were you?

Anyway it’s not just servers that are driving me mad at the moment. Everywhere I go in the house all I hear are the husky ‘I want to steal your husband’ tones of a certain Miss Carla Bruni.

My husband has got the Bruni-bug bad. Ever since the French president started stepping out with her he has spent most of his time reading about her exploits, listening to her dreary music or watching clips of her on YouTube.

He lost his trainers the other day. “Maybe Carla Bruni has taken them,” he said, “in a desperate attempt to get me to come and claim them back from her.” Yeah, right.

Deranged he may be, but I fear he is not alone. For Miss Bruni is every man’s dream and every woman’s nightmare. This is a girl who believes in free love and has the looks and guile to get it wherever she wants.

If I were the Queen I would refuse to have her anywhere near me on the upcoming state visit, married or not. Married, as we know, means nothing to the capricious Carla. Unless the Queen wants to risk losing her husband and possibly her son and/or grandson she should keep her well away from the palace.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It is not every day there are twenty men at the bottom of my drive in tight uniforms. But yesterday I was surrounded. Next to our house is a plot of land owned by a local man. Yesterday morning he decided to burn some shrubs. What he had not factored in was the fact that there was a lot of wind and his small bonfire soon threatened to ravage most of the valley.

Rupert and I saw the flames from our house and rushed over. I called the fire brigade and waited, watching helplessly as the flames destryoed everything around them. Luckily for us the wind was blowing away from the house, or I may not be feeling quite so calm about it today.

I was impressed with the fire brigade, although they took a while to show up. They stationed one fire engine at the end of our drive, just in case the direction of the wind should suddenly change.

Once the flames had died down and the men in uniform had left Rupert and I walked along the road to survey the damage. The hill looked like a black desert. And the smell was reminiscent of a BBQ gone terribly wrong.

Leonardo was not impressed when he came back from school. “This is not good,” he announced. “This is not good at all.” The girls, who had heard at school that ‘Sainte Cecile was on fire’ were angry. “That’s not nice for the trees,” said Bea. “What an idiot. Why did he go and do that?”

I feel sorry for our neighbour. He might have been a bit silly but he certainly didn’t expect all this. He wandered around his scorched earth shaking his head mumbling “there was no wind when I started the fire.” Another villager who came up to take a look (not much happens around here and this was big news) was more philosophical. “It won’t be the last time someone sets fire to the countryside,” he said.

I’m sure it won’t. But apart from the obvious damage to the trees the sad thing is that everything was looking so lovely and green for once due to the rain we’ve had. But now, rather like Amy, we’re Back to Black.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Last night we went to the ballet to see Swan Lake, performed by the Kiev Ballet at a venue called The Zenith in Montpellier. My suspicions should have been roused when the tops of our water bottles were confiscated by security guards on the way in. Why? I asked.

“There are people who throw bottles at the stage,” I was told. “If the top is off they don’t travel so far.”

This was clearly not going to be like any ballet I had ever been to. At Covent Garden the audience might murmur their disapproval at a false step or you might even get the odd polite cough, but a water bottle as a missile? Most unlikely.

“Let’s go and have a glass of champagne,” I said to Mary once we were through security. No, my suitcase has not arrived but we had managed to feed ourselves and our four children for a total of twenty euros at IKEA so were feeling like we could splash out (pardon the pun) a little.

More disappointment. There was not a champagne bar in sight. What was on sale, however, was a selection of pizzas, fizzy drinks and dreadful-looking baguettes filled with ham.

We went into the auditorium. It looked more like the venue for a giant rave than a ballet. The seats were plastic and instead of chandeliers we had scaffolding.

I am pleased to report though that the ballet was divine. They were perfect. No reason to hurl a water bottle, empty or otherwise. The first sight of the corps de ballet all in white running onto the stage made the whole thing totally worthwhile. Odette/Odile was fantastic; innocent and graceful as Odette, naughty, humorous and totally seductive as Odile. Even the prince, whom I normally find too tedious, was impressive. Although the girls were a little surprised to see a man wearing tights and showing “all his bits”.

As we left I was in a haze of tutus and pirouettes. I hoped the girls had loved it as much as I did.

“Did you like it?” I said to Bea.

“Yes,” she said. “But we didn’t see any swans.”

There is no pleasing some people…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I was a younger my stepfather would often say that the problem with me is that I am always waiting for a suitcase to show up and solve all my problems. He was referring to a suitcase of money which would magically transform my life.

I need that suitcase more than ever now. I was awake at 3.30 am again, fretting about money. As I lay there thinking about the overdraft and the school fees to be paid and the mortgage due to go out tomorrow I could literally feel my hair going grey. Older friends of mine tell me this is economically the worst time in one’s life. Never again are we going to have such financial pressures and so little money. Obviously they’re right; once my suitcase shows up we’ll be fine.

On a brighter note, Olivia has declared that she wants to be a ballerina when she grows up. “It’s my dream,” she told me last night. We watched some scenes from Swan Lake together and I asked her how she thought she was going to be able to remain frozen in one position as a member of the corps de ballet. She cannot stand or sit still for more than three seconds. I know this because I have tested her. It’s physically impossible.

“Oh, I won’t need to stand still,” she said. “I’m going to be the one at the front.” . This is not a girl waiting for a suitcase……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have just had my first meeting in French. It was a lunch in an Italian restaurant in St Germain with the French publisher of Two Lipsticks and a Lover and the hottest publicist in Paris, hired by the publisher to promote the book.

I was of course terrified. First of all what do you wear to a meeting with two Parisian women? Then there was the question of if I could make myself understood in French or if they would laugh at my pronunciation and non-existant grammar.

My publisher, called Karine, was sweet as you like. Young, pretty, kind, charming, attentive. The publicist was just like one of those perfect French women I write about in the book. She was thin, elegant, dressed in black with perfect red lipstick. I suddenly felt dowdy, although she was kind enough to notice that my top was Emporio Armani (handed down from my aunt in the days when she used to speak to me) and told me I was “tres elegante“.

This did put me at ease to a certain extent, but did not detract from the fact that she was scarily reminiscent of Meryl Streep in The Devil wears Prada. I am sure she is the hottest publicist in Paris, who would dare to say no to her? Not me, that’s for sure. I expected her to say “that’s all” at any moment and dismiss me.

So here I am on the train bound for home with Elle, Marie-Claire, Liberation and Le Monde to read. And I have promised to speak French to my children.

“If you can’t express yourself in March when the book comes out it will be a catastrophe,” she told me.

The reading list I can cope with, but can you imagine the derison from my children as I tell them to pick up their toys or do their homework in French? They will be able to disobey me constantly, telling me they didn’t understand what I was saying. So no change there.

After my good cop, bad cop encounter I had a photo session. I stood on busy Parisian shopping streets, craning my neck to see what bargains I was missing out on, as a photographer took pictures of me for the book jacket. So another fantasy (that of being a model) has become reality – not a bad start to the year.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It was one of those few moments in life when the reality was better than the fantasy. Yesterday the girls started their ballet classes. I was so nervous about arriving late we were there an hour and a half before the beginning. We wandered around for a while and then went to the school.

It is called the Skouratoff Studio and is in a small back-street in a part of Montpellier you have never heard of and wouldn’t really want to visit. It has two studios, one that looks out on the street. It was here I witnessed the obsession begin. Olivia and Bea stood totally transfixed watching a class of teenagers dance. It was a magical moment. I almost wept with joy.

Then it was their turn. They looked divine in their little pink tutus, hair up in a bun and ballet shoes. I wasn’t allowed to stay and watch but they came out beaming, telling me they wanted to join the more advanced class. Since coming home they have talked about nothing else and done practically nothing else. As I write they are leaping around upstairs. Bea incidentally is a very good jumper according to the teacher. I have to say the transformation in Olivia after just one lesson is astounding. She now looks like a ballerina.

As for me, well I did ask about the adult courses and there are lots of them, for all levels. I am sorely tempted but Rupert warns me that Zelda Fitzgerald tried to become a ballet dancer just before she went mad.

Maybe I’d better stick to watching the girls. In my case the fantasy is probably better than the reality.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The Australian Open is on at the moment and every morning I switch on the television to be greeted with images of French players battling it out down under. And every morning I ask the same question: Why are there no British players playing?

There was one, Andy Murray, who was knocked out in the first round. But the French seem to have a never-ending supply. This seems a bit rum, after all we invented the game, didn’t we?

Up to a point. In the 19th century the English invented lawn tennis, but it was based on Real Tennis which had been played in France since the 12th Century. In fact the word tennis comes from the French tenez meaning get it in the context of Real Tennis.

One of the criticisms levelled at the French educational system is that they don’t do enough sport or art. This may be true. But we have Wednesdays off to do all that and on Wednesdays my children all trot off to Pezenas Tennis Club where they have tennis coaching with other children.

The fact is they may not do tennis at school but it is made very easy to do it outside of school and every village, no matter how small, has a tennis court.

I would love to see one of my children represent England in the Australian Open one day and I know where they should be brought up if they’re to stand a chance.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Johnny Depp has given £1 million to Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital for saving his daughter’s life last year. In March 2007 Lily-Rose contracted E-coli poisoning and her kidneys failed. It was touch and go for nine days, but she pulled through.

I have always thought that one of the best things about being really rich must be being able to come up with grand gestures like this one. But Johnny has done even more than give money which, let’s face it, is easy if you have lots of it. He also had his Captain Jack Sparrow costume flown over from LA and spent four hours reading bedtime stories to the hospitalised children.

Disney, which made the Pirates Of The Caribbean films, has donated £10million to Great Ormond Street, which needs to raise £170million in five years to re-develop two-thirds of the hospital site.

I wonder why people spend money helping donkeys (however sweet they are) in Greece and other far-flung places when there are causes like this one to support.

Anyway, hats off to Johnny, I always liked him. Although one might argue that a hospital like Great Ormond Street should not have to rely on the kindness of pirates.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Yesterday Bea and I had a ballet class. Well, I say class, but it was less professional than that. I taught her the steps and arm movements with the help of a book written by Darcy Bussell called The Young Dancer. As I moved with not much grace from first to second position I thought, as I do most days, about how much I regret not pursuing my fantasy and going for a career as a ballet dancer.

But there is hope for me yet. I read today that an 88-year-old-man is about to make his balleting debut on stage this Sunday. He has been dancing since he was 79 and will be performing in Prokofiev’s The Stone Flower, the composer’s last ballet, which premiered at the Bolshoi in 1954. Now it will be the talk of Ely, a Cambridgeshire city most famous (until this coming Sunday) for its Norman Cathedral.

John Lowe, as the new Nureyev is called, says he can’t understand why more men don’t do ballet. “I went to a dance school in the high street in Ely and asked if I could do tap and ballet and they said ‘well of course you can’ and I’ve been doing it ever since,” says the retired teacher and grandfather of 11. “I see these people crawling around , hunched over smoking a cigarette – they should be doing ballet.”

I couldn’t agree more. And I am going into training now. Covent Garden here I come. In another forty years I may just be ready for you.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Sir Edmund Hillary died today. He was 88 and died of heart failure at the Auckland City Hospital. The reason you will have heard of him is that in 1953 he and Tenzing Norgay became the first climbers to reach the summit of Mount Everest.

I have never had a desire to climb mountains. In fact when we were in Zermatt last year we wandered around the village graveyard looking at the graves of all those who had failed to conquer the Matterhorn and paid the ultimate price. I looked at the names and the birth and death dates of these young men and wondered what on earth possessed them to give up what was probably a very bright future to get to the top of a mountain. I suppose it’s some desire to do something that you will be remembered for. But wouldn’t it just be easier to write a book or become a golfer?

But some of the greatest acts of bravery have come from expeditions. The British have a long and illustrious history of exploring. The Antarctic explorer Captain Lawrence Oates, weakened by frostbite, walked into a blizzard knowing it meant certain death so as to increase the chances of survival for the remaining men. His last words are among the most famous quotations ever. “I am just going outside and may be some time,” he said as he left the hut.

“Those were the days when men were proper blokes,” said Rupert as we watched a programme about an expedition to the north pole in the 1960s the other evening.

It is true it seems a more romantic time, when men were driven to daring deeds and to discover the world you actually had to go there instead of just googling it. Having said that Hillary may have been undaunted by Everest, but when it came to proposing to his wife he was too shy and so asked his future mother-in-law to do it.

Hillary’s wife and daughter were tragically killed in a plane crash in 1975. But his son Peter climbed Everest in 2003, along with the Tenzing’s son, Jamling Tenzing Norgay, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Hillary’s ascent.

So maybe we are still up to daring deeds, we just need the right inspiration.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008