When I was a little girl dreaming of becoming a journalist I would look at my stepfather’s Sunday Times and wonder if one day I might be good enough to write for it. It seemed an unobtainable aim, but I imagined reporting from trouble-spots around the world, one of the bravest and best foreign correspondents the Sunday Times had ever known.

As some of you may know, I do write for the Sunday Times, I have a column about living in France called The French Mistress. But this weekend there was a special surprise for me. On page two there is a list their top writers in the Sunday Times with pictures. There among the likes of Michael Portillo, Christina Lamb and Marie Colvin was moi. So it’s official, I am a top writer. I was terribly excited by this, despite the fact that while Lamb was reporting from Zimbabwe and Colvin’s dispatch came from Basra I was writing about, er, Botox.

But do not underestimate the dangers of botox, get it wrong and your eyebrows droop. Not a good look. Even Mugabe is unlikely to do that to you.

Obviously next week I’ll be reporting on matching underwear from Afghanistan.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It was the Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said that ‘no man can step into the same river twice, for fresh waters are ever flowing in upon you’. I had hoped that when Carla showed up for the state visit to England that she might have brought a bit of fresh water with her.

Sadly not. One commentator observed that she looked like a mixture betweeb Jackie Kennedy and a nun. I am all for Jackie Kennedy. Style icons like her are to be adored and admired. But the fact is that our dear tutti fruity Carla is about as far removed from her as she is to a nun, and yet she is trying to be her. Heraclitus would not approve.

I can see that for her this was a safe option. Show up looking demure and like Jackie – that’s what people expect from a First Lady. They do indeed. Unless that particular First Lady has a reputation for sleeping with rock stars and conducting interviews topless (I promise you, she did, I read the article, the (male) journalist had to keep trying not to look at her tits and bury his head in his notebook).

What I was hoping from tutti fruity Carla was something with a little flair, a touch of the frivolous, the fun, the daring. Why show up looking like a frigid matron when the whole world knows you’re anything but?

Who knows, she could have created a style all her own, that future first ladies and women all over the world would have emulated.

And another thing. How long before she realises that going on tour with Mick was much more fun than state visits to drafty old castles?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have finally made it into the Guardian newspaper, twice in a week. I wrote a blog about romantic literary heroes that don’t age, then appeared in a piece in today’s lifestyle section. Today’s article is not flattering (read it here if you can be bothered, it goes on a bit). The writer, someone I’ve never heard of called Zoe Williams, clearly loathes and detests me. This is not unusual in a Guardian writer. She says she is ‘amazed’ by me, calling me a ‘no-mark’. What’s that exactly? I can only assume that she is referring to my wrinkle-free complexion, something I am rather pleased about. She goes on to insist that she cannot believe how I managed to string out my observations about French women into one book, let alone two.

It was around here that I got confused. I know I write books with more regularity than most people have their eye-brows plucked, but can I really have missed one? What is this second book about French women?

It was then I twigged: Ms Williams is referring to the US edition of Two Lipsticks and a Lover, called All you need to be Impossibly French. How unfortunate. It is one thing writing a vehement attack on someone, but to get such a basic fact wrong is rather, well, sloppy.

Ms Williams has every right to refuse to take care of herself (as she so proudly states that she does) but she should really take more care in her research. Moreover, she is guilty of missing the point of my one book about Frenchwomen. It is not that I think that Frenchwomen are a superior race, nor do I think that English women should be condemned for not looking good. However, I do think that one can both look good and be intelligent; it is these two qualities that one should strive for. I said in the book that I thought that English women had a stronger sense of sisterhood and I would always rather go out with a group of them than a group of French women.

If Ms Williams had bothered to read one of the books – rather than thinking they were two separate books – she would have learnt this. But maybe she was too busy stroking her goatee to care!

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I take it all back. The Parisian publicist is a genius. What do I see in this week’s issue of Paris Match? A whole page about moi and my book. (Click here to view the article.).

As luck would have it, I had subscribed to Paris Match on the instructions of said genius publicist. So now I am famous among Paris Match readers which as far as I can make out is most of the French population. Along with Graham in Switzerland who wrote to me complaining that the cartoonist’s byline was the biggest thing on the page.

I was amazed last night when we went to a Beziers wine-bar to celebrate our great friend Simon’s birthday that I wasn’t mobbed by crowds of fans. I even brought my special pink pen for autographs with me.

I can only assume it’s because there was no photo of me in the article. I am sure this will all change next week when I am on the front cover of Vogue.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Regular blog readers may remember that ever since I was a little girl I have lived with the idea that a large suitcase of cash would one day magically appear on my doorstep. Well, it has.

The night before last we had a friend over for dinner. He is a charming man, a proper bloke, as Rupert would say. He showed up with presents for the children and wine for us. He played chess with all three children (and let them win), entertained us with stories and told us that is we ever needed anything to come to him. “After all,” he reasoned, “you are bringing on the next generation.”

Then we started talking about what we were up to. I told him about Renew and how we had lots of press coming but were still short on punters. He asked me how much it will cost to run the first retreat. I told him. “Oh I’ll lend you that,” he said. Needless to say, my immediate reaction was to jump up from the dinner table and kiss him. Amazingly this didn’t put him off. Today we are having lunch to iron out the details but thanks to this particular suitcase, Renew Retreats is now very much a goer.

If there happen to be any world leaders reading can I just say one thing? Boycott the Olympics in China. That’s all you need to do. France (bless her) has made some noises in that direction but the rest is a deafening silence. As for Gordon Brown meeting the Dalai Lama, good, but why not do it in Downing Street and make it a state visit? No need to answer that, we all know why; cowardice and greed. Not two adjectives one would use to describe the people of Tibet.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Yesterday my book about French women Two Lipsticks and a Lover came out in France. Here it is called So Chic! and they have translated the UK title and made it a sub-title. Some of you may remember the scary meeting I had with the foremost book publicist in Paris who told me if I didn’t improve my French this week of interviews would be a disaster.

I kept my side of the bargain. Every day I called my long-suffering friend Jacques and spoke to him in French for around 15 minutes. My husband had to leave the house while this was going on. “I’m pleased you’re doing it,” he would say, heading for the door. “I just don’t want to hear it.”

I read Elle, Marie-Claire, Paris-Match; I watched French television. Even my neighbour noticed my French has got better. I imagined wafting around Paris this week, my publicity team in tow, gracing various TV channels with interviews and using the subjunctive like normal mortals use the present tense.

I am not at all chuffed to report that rather than Paris I am in my armchair with Max the cat sitting on my keyboard while Olivia (off sick from school) coughs next to me. To cheer myself up I look at amazon.fr to catch a glimpse of my newly-published book. It is very exciting to be published in the same language as Flaubert and Proust. Granted their books were a lot longer and possibly less superficial than mine, although I’m sure if Flaubert had got on to matching underwear he’d have written about it.

On amazon.fr there is no cover image of my book and my rating is far, far worse than To Hell in High Heels on amazon.co.uk which isn’t even published yet.

The French public is clearly not interested in my opinion of French women. Apart from one lone presenter that is who has a show on the radio statrion France Inter called 5/7. He interviewed me for his show and promised me a 10-minute slot. I though the name was rather promising, cinq a sept and all that. Until he told me it in fact goes out between five and seven in the morning.

So good work Madame Publicist – I am big among French lorry drivers…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I promised I would never betray Jonny, but that new boy is damn good. And cute. And listen to this; his mother drives a London black cab, she used to work all day, get home and give him his tea, then go out to work again at night so she could pay to put him through prep-school. The father was long gone, back to Trinidad and Tobago.

Danny Cipriani (great name, reminds me of Danny Zuko all those years ago) is twenty and as I write is making a remarkable England debut. When he started half of me wanted him to fail so that Jonny could have his job back. But he has kicked seven out of seven and not put a foot wrong. And he says he wants to become rich enough one day so that his mum can stop working. Bless him.

Late in the game they even bought Jonny on as well. Clearly I will have to adore them both for the moment. And when Jonny eventually does go, Cipriani will make the pain that much easier to bear…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I finally make it to the centre spread of a newspaper and guess what? Instead of a picture of me in my old wedding dress displaying my grey hair and droning on about my new book they have turned me into a cartoon character.

In fact when I first saw the cartoon on the Daily Mail website I thought to myself ‘why have they drawn a picture of some random woman and put her in my article’? Mind you, it was 5am and Bea had decided that was a good time to get up to watch Zoe 101.

Then Rupert said; “That’s supposed to be you.” And now I look at it closer, it is. But with bigger hair and bigger tits, and in fact longer, thinner legs. What’s not to like? They’ve even turned my old wedding dress pink. How did they know that’s my favourite colour?

I think I will get used to life as a cartoon character. I am always smiling, my hair is constantly glossy (never grey), and I can’t empty the dishwasher or do the ironing.

And more crucially than all that, I will never age…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Never mind the arrival of the Daily Mail in the region, the big news yesterday was that Louis has a girlfriend. “She’s called Elisa. They even kissed on the lips,” Leo told us when he came home from school. He was more scandalised than my mother was when I showed up at home with dreadlocks. Actually come to think of it, she wasn’t remotely scandalised.

Anyway, Leo was shocked. Disgusted from Tunbridge Wells. Then this evening he came home looking all pleased with himself.

“I kissed Louis’ girlfriend,” he told me happily chomping on a carrot.

“Didn’t he mind?” I asked.

“We was hiding,” he replied, somewhat smugly. This girl spells trouble, at four years old. So does my son.

“Mummy, who will I marry?” Leo asked after a minute or two.

“Who do you want to marry?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Louis’ girlfriend,” he said. “But definitely someone with long hair.”

Talking of marriage – one of the ways they may illustrate the Mail serialisation of the book is to show me ten years ago at our wedding (June 1998) and compare the picture with me now, wearing the same dress. Here is an exclusive sneak preview. The photographer kindly said I could publish it for free with a credit. His name is Ben Lister and his website is www.benlister.com.

When I sent my mother the picture she called to say how amazing it was that I could still get into the same dress ten years on. What most readers of the Mail won’t realise is that the back wasn’t done up.

So the pressing question of the day, apart from who will Leo marry, is when did my rib-cage grow, and why?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

As I write the Daily Mail photographer is speeding his way through the Languedoc countryside to photograph me for the serialisation of my book on anti-ageing. And what do I have?

Grey hair, that’s what I have. Right at the front. You can’t miss it. And a spot on my chin. I suppose at least that makes me look young.

I was meant to go to the hairdresser this morning. I thought they would come tomorrow. But no, they are here and will be with me by 10.30 am. When I say ‘they’ I mean the photographer, the make-up artist and my suitcase of designer clothes. It’s not a bad way to spend a Monday.

But back to the hair. I have already spoken to several friends about this, they both suggest shoe polish. Is this wise I ask myself? What if the shade is wrong and what about the smell? Another suggests mascara. But my mascara is black. I am hoping the make-up artist will have some ideas. Meanwhile I am looking for a brown felt-tip pen.

Wish me luck……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008