Bea has a boyfriend

Posted on February 28, 2008 by helena

Bea So it’s finally happened. Well I say finally, she is only seven, but it was only a matter of time. Bea has a boyfriend. She came home yesterday from the leisure centre where French schoolchildren spend half-term if they’re not skiing glowing with the news.

“I’ve got a boyfriend, I’ve got a boyfriend,” she chanted all around the house. I asked all the obvious questions like what does he look like, where does he live, what do his parents do, can he ride a bike, does he play rugby, where does he go to school?

“He looks like a girl,” said Bea. “And he’s got a girlfriend.” Then she went back to singing and prancing around the room like a ballerina on acid.

So not a great start is my conclusion. Rupert is more concerned for the boy, Sammie as he is called.

“In Papua New Guinea they advise you that if you have a car crash you should head for the airport immediately and get the first plane out of the country,” he said as he watched Bea celebrate her new relationship. “I strongly suggest Sammie does the same.”

Why?

Posted on February 27, 2008 by helena

I have just read the sort of story that makes me want to weep. In fact I am having to concentrate on not weeping. A man is being held in Italy for the murder of his two sons aged 12 and 14. He threw them down a 60-foot well in 2006.

Their bodies were discovered by accident when another boy fell down the same well on Monday night. Evidence suggests these two boys did not die when they were thrown in. Instead they suffered a slow and agonising death in the darkness. One of them was found curled up in the foetal position, his thumb in his mouth.

Their mother says her life is over. I can understand that. The agony of thinking what your boys must have gone through is more than any mother can bear.

There is nothing in the story to suggest a motive on the part of the father. But what motive could there possibly be for throwing your children to a hellish death?

No one knows how long Salvatore and Francesco survived down there. We’ll never know if they comforted each other, or if one of them watched the other die, we can only guess at the terror and desperation they must have felt. And we will probably never understand what drove their father to this most cruel and heinous act.

You worry about all sorts of things happening to your children; from accidents to abductions to illness. But not this. How could you ever imagine this?

Yeah, right….

Posted on February 25, 2008 by helena

OK, so who was it? Which one of you is responsible for the following letter?

Trinny & Susannah Hi Helena.

Love the column.

Any chance, I wonder, of a signed photograph of yourself?

The one (or similar) accompanying your French mistress article in yesterday’s Sunday Times/Home Section would be FAB.

It really would complement the Joanna Lumley, Doon Mackichan and Trinny & Suzannah ones’ that already adorn my office wall!

If you’re willing to respond to such a request then I’ll obviously forward you my UK postal address.

Best…
Richard

This email ranks alongside those ‘I’m a Nigerian prince and want to give you all my money’ or ‘my name is Jonny Wilkinson and I have been secretly in love with you since I spotted you in the crowd at the Marseille Velodrome’ style mails.

Joanna My husband maintains he has never heard of Richard and that it wasn’t him. Most of my friends are too lazy or busy to pull a stunt like this. Maybe it was my step-children in revenge for my column about how spoiled their generation is? Maybe Leonardo is a precocious internet user? But the only celebs he knows are Spiderman and Peter Pan.

Whoever it was, I didn’t fall for it. As if I would be seen dead next to Trinny and Suzannah. I mean, puhleeaaase.

The thrilling game

Posted on February 24, 2008 by helena

Jonny

Some of you may think this blog is just an excuse to get yet another picture of Jonny Wilkinson up. And your problem with that is…?

Last night he proved yet again that he is the greatest living Englishman. The Six Nations match between England and France was as good as it gets. Normally only Grey’s Anatomy can make me forget I am ironing sheets. Last night I could have ironed every duvet cover in the house.

It rather reminded me of the old days with Rob Andrew, Jeremy Guscott and Will Carling. I was at Durham with Carling and he is the reason I started watching rugby in the first place. I remember the excitement when he was picked for England and then became England captain. Back then of course the game was amateur and he had to combine his rugby with his studies and army career.

Football is known as the beautiful game. I think rugby can be extremely beautiful too, especially when the French play their French flair. But last night there was (thankfully) not too much French flair. “More pain-au-chocolat than panache,” said my husband.

But we saw plently of English grit and of course Jonny’s flair. It is hard to define what made the game so exciting but part of it must be that it is a sport where everyone gives their all, that is fiercely masculine and also challenging. On the rare ocassions a try is scored, it really is an event.

So I fell asleep happy; Swing Low Sweet Chariot ringing in my ears. But all the way through the match I was convinced France would win. Which just goes to show that live sport is one of the few unpredictable things left in our sanitised and ordered world. And thankfully Jonny remains predictably brilliant.

Tweaks for a better life

Posted on February 22, 2008 by helena

So the international conspiracy to keep me awake goes on. The perpetrators will stop at nothing. Now they have a gang of highly-trained mice that at 5.30am every morning scuttle back and forth across the roof. It sounds like there are 50 of them racing to get to a big piece of Emmental.

Of course that hour when the rest of the house sleeps (damn them) is horribly lonely. I lie there worrying about everything and anything. This morning I worried about my new spa retreat. ‘What on earth do I know about spa retreats?’ I asked myself as the mice reached the finishing line. ‘Who do I think I am? I have been to plenty of spas, but what the hell do I know?’

Unable to get back to sleep I got out of bed and into the tree pose. This is one of the poses our spa yogi Anna taught us on our dry-run a few days ago. Since then I have found it indispensable. First and foremost when you need calming down this is ideal. Got an email that makes you want to punch your computer? Stand up, lift one leg and balance against the other leg just below your groin. Stretch your arms up and breeeaaaaathe. Stand like this for a few seconds before doing the same on the other side. After that sit down and the email will seem irrelevant. The other thing the tree pose is excellent for is calming the children down.

Yesterday all three of them decided to start a fight (thankfully only with each other) in the supermarket. Did I yell and holler like every other mother in the middle of the school holidays? Nooooo. I did the tree pose. Right there, in the middle of the shop-floor. It sure as hell shut the children up.

So as I was standing there at 5.45 this morning in said tree pose I realised that my spa has already been a success. Among other things I have learnt how to relax when I most need to, I have learnt that eating Wild Alaskan Salmon makes my skin glow and I have learnt how to walk like a supermodel. And that was just after a day and a half. Now what I want to do is share all this and more with other women.

The other good thing about the spa retreat is that there will be no mice there to keep me awake. And even if the international conspiracy comes up with something else, I will be able to outwit it by standing on one leg and breathing serenely.

Proud to be Brit-ish?

Posted on February 21, 2008 by helena

Shazza Last night I watched the Brit Awards. For those of you who don’t know what they are, they are the British music industry’s equivalent of a Grammy or an Oscar. The show was presented by the Osbourne family who shot to fame on a US reality TV show. They looked like the Adams family and behaved like yobs.

It was led by the matriarch, Sharon. Every other word was “pissed” or “piss off”. Her behaviour would have got me expelled from school but here she was on live TV, being paid thousands no doubt, to screech like a fish-wife and show off her limited vocabulary. She made the so-called really bad girl of rock, Amy Winehouse, look angelic.

Someone should tell Mrs Osbourne that there is nothing amusing about a fifty-something woman dressed in a curtain swearing and flirting with a series of drunk men whom I had never heard of.

I sat and cringed for the two hours of the show. All I could think was, ‘what will the rest of the world think of us?’ Is this really the best person we have for the job? Her daughter showed more decorum but was about as elegant as a squashed snail. As for Ozzy himself, I don’t even want to go there. The son had the sense to keep quiet.

Man-band The rare highlights when Mrs Osbourne shut her foul mouth were Amy (a little wobbly but what a voice), Mika (cute as anything and extremely polite) and of course Take That, which was the main reason I was watching. They were lovely, and briefly restored my pride in the British, if not the British music industry.

Meanwhile there has been an alleged sighting of Madeleine close to us, at a service station near Montpellier. A Dutch student claims to have seen the little girl and says she reacted when she called her name. I really want to believe she is still alive, I had given up all hope, reluctantly taking down the picture of her from my blog. But if anyone else should spot a little girl they think is her, for heaven’s sake just grab her and call the police immediately – no one will hold it against you.

An inspector calls

Posted on February 19, 2008 by helena

I was on a yoga mat in my M&S pink polka-dot underwear when the police arrived. I am genetically pre-disposed to panic as soon as I see a policeman. I spent my childhood watching my mother shout ‘help’ every time one came anywhere near us, even if he was just innocently arresting someone else.

But these policemen were at my door in full uniform and carrying guns. Things did not look promising.

Leo and Wolfie “Is zis your dog?” asked one of them, although not of course in an Inspector Clouseau accent, because he was speaking French. But you get the idea. “E ‘as murdered a lamb.”

“Wolfie doesn’t eat lamb,” I was tempted to respond but thought better of it. “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked.

“I sink so,” said the other inspector (why they need to send two policemen round to see a lamb-murdering suspect I don’t understand). “E is all wet, he ‘as washed all the traces of blood away.”

Right – so Wolfie thought ‘yum that was jolly good but if mummy sees me covered in blood she’ll get suspicious, I’d better have a bath.’ Yep, I wondered where my lavender bath oil had got to.

Wolfie watched us with an air of amusement throughout the conversation and didn’t object to the mug-shots they took of him to show the owner of the dead lamb.

“We’ll call you when we have a positive identification,” they said and drove off.

Ten minutes later another car arrived. It’s bloody hard to get any yoga done round here. This time it was the owner of said deceased lamb.

“Are you the owner of an Alsatian?”

“Allegedly, ” I replied, and added “but I don’t think he murdered your lamb, he was here all morning and anyway he’s not very aggressive.”

“Where is he? I want to see him,” he demanded. I called Wolfie thinking this might be the last time I ever saw him alive and wondering what sort of carpet he might make.

“It’s not him,” said the man, suddenly becoming quite civil and even patting Wolfie.

So I am now on my yoga mat once more, breathing heavily with relief. I am addicted to yoga after a two-day dry-run for our Renew Retreat which I completed this morning. I feel marvellous after just two days and can’t wait to see how I good I feel after the full weekend in May. Let’s just hope we don’t have as many men in uniform showing up, unless of course they’re willing to give us a massage.

A French Education

Posted on February 16, 2008 by helena

This week I felt the full force of the French educational system. Olivia had some homework about the origins of the French flag, Marianne and other French national symbols.

If I had been a contestant on ‘Who wants to be a millionaire’ I would have been disqualified. Not only did I have to phone a friend, I had to look online (for hours), ask my husband and look in an encyclopedia. And even after all that we apparently got some of it wrong.

On the way home from school last night Olivia was telling me about some things they had learnt at school about our village. I added some knowledge of my own.

“Mummy,” she said looking at me with a mixture of impatience and pity. “I really don’t think you know more than my teacher. He is a teacher after all.”

Does he knw that pink is the new black? That Laura Mercier has just launched a new water soluble all-in-one cleanser and toner? I don’t think so.

This is a man who told them last week that Father Christmas doesn’t exist. Clearly he knows nothing at all.

Mrs Sneeze

Posted on February 14, 2008 by helena

Medicine I have been struck down with a horrible flu. I must have sneezed around 700 times during the last two days. I dread to think how many brain-cells I have killed. All around the house there are bins filled with tissues. My head hurts, my body hurts, my nose is as red as a traffic light (not a good look) and I feel miserable.

I once killed a cold in its early stages by drinking a bottle of red wine and then taking to my bed. As a cure it beats Lemsip and garlic cloves. One theory is that alcohol dries you up, so at least your nose stops running. Despite my efforts over the last two nights to drink as much red wine as I can the cold is still here, lingering and victorious. I hate it.

I have just sent off the proposal for my next book which is all about happiness. One of the theories I put forward is that we should count our blessings when we’re not ill and be jolly happy to be healthy.

Well, I will certainly try to follow my own advice, once this damn flu clutters off. You’d think it might have given me Valentine’s Day off. How can I possibly kiss my husband (who is looking after me very well) when I can’t breathe through my nose?

Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells

Posted on February 11, 2008 by helena

Mr Rude This afternoon I was on Radio BBC Southern Counties (what?! How could you miss it?) talking about a new Mr Man character. He is called Mr Rude and he encourages children to pull his finger and then he farts. Apparently he does all this in a French accent.

Call me old-fashioned, but isn’t this just a tad low-rent? And while we’re on the subject, last night I saw the most disgusting television ad I have ever seen. I won’t go into too many details but it showed a man on the loo. Bad enough you might think, but it got worse. He realises the loo-paper has run out and looks around him and then at the newspaper he is reading and decided the newspape is too good to use so doesn’t. His expression is disgusting, as is the whole idea of it.

What is this advertisement for? Some low-rent, down-market paper you or I will never have heard of? No, it’s for the football section of The Times. The TIMES for crying out loud? THE TIMES OF LONDON as it has proudly been known since 1803 when its name was changed from The Daily Universal Register.

At the risk of sounding like the legendary ‘disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’, I am just that. Although happily I don’t live in Tunbridge Wells.