My friend Norrie sent me this poem over the weekend to celebrate the coming of Spring:

For winters rains and ruins are over,
   And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
   The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
   And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
   Blossom by blossom the Spring begins

A simple and evocative portrayal of all that is good triumphing over darkness.

It is a little known fact that Algernon (now why didn’t I think of calling Leonardo that?) Charles Swinburne was the Amy Winehouse of his day. He was an alcoholic sadomasochist; sounds like a rather heady combination and should probably not be tried at home.

Eventually though he was rehabilitated and lived to the ripe old age of 72 in Putney. Maybe the same will happen to Amy now she has finally ditched the dreadful druggy Blake in favour of a nice boy who wears glasses and has a proper job from Gloucestershire.

Good luck to him and to Amy, however I’m not sure she’ll ever fit into life in Putney, however long she lives.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Leonardo is only four but showing great foresight when it comes to his domestic future.

“When I live here with my darling,” he told me the other day, “you can live by the trampoline.” The trampoline is on the lawn, conveniently close to the pool but really not convenient for anything else. Still, I will do as I’m told and am already planning to have it re-upholstered pink.

“Who will your darling be?” I asked him, secretly hating her already, like any doting mother would.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But she will have long hair and we will kiss on the lips.”

My mother has been here for a few days. It’s been amazing. Like having a clone of myself running around doing all the things I do. Now she has gone, leaving the house immaculate and the washing and ironing piles non-existent. This is the first time that’s happened since she was here last year.

Last night Leonardo asker her who her darling was.

“You,” she replied.

“But I don’t want to marry you,” he said, looking horrified.

“OK, then mummy is my darling,” said my darling mummy.

“Nooooo, she’s already got Daddy,” Leonardo said shaking his head.

“Right. My cats. They’re my darlings,” said my mother.

“But they don’t got no lips,” came the response.

So now you know, a darling has to have long hair and lips. No wonder Mick Jagger is so popular.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have a friend of a friend who is on the UK soap Coronation Street. He told her an amazing fact the other day which is that the scriptwriters are forced to come up with something exciting every eight seconds in order to prevent people from switching channels.

Every eight seconds….can you imagine if life was like that? No sooner have you given birth when your brother-in-law announces he’s running off with his best (male) friend and your mother tells you that you are in fact the product of a liaison she once had with a Brazilian opera singer and not your father who thinks Rigoletto is a pasta dish.

Anyway, as you may know, the favoured soap around here is Grey’s Anatomy. I have the good fortune to have a very technically-minded friend who downloaded the whole of the fourth series for me. Yesterday was a sad day. Olivia and I watched the final episode. I don’t even think they’ve made a fifth series yet and am wondering how on earth to get through the ironing during the coming months.

My friend who downloaded the series says you can tell a lot about a woman by asking her if she prefers McDreamy or McSteamy.

As long as either or both of them are on every eight seconds, I’m happy. So what does that say about me?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

In order to break into journalism in England I was forced to become a financial journalist on leaving university. This was not, as you can imagine, my natural environment. I worked for the gripping title ‘Trade Finance Magazine’ which shortly after I joined became ‘Project and Trade Finance Magazine’. You can imagine my relief. I am still unsure of the difference between the two.

Anyway, for ten years I struggled on, despite an inauspicious start. I got back from my first ever meeting to find my editor fielding a call from the person I had interviewed who had called to ask her why she had sent “this bimbo who knows less than nothing about trade finance” to interview him.

Finally I gave up journalism altogether, only to reinvent myself as the Sunday Times French Mistress and lifestyle journalist years later.

I have now broken into French journalism which is extremely exciting. Barring the obvious problem that I am unable to write French I think it will go swimmingly. I am a columnist (which is rather like going straight in at number one) for a magazine called Santé.

My first column is Me and my foot cream. I feel I have finally found my level….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The irony of returning from a trip to the French Lakes and find we have no water in the house was not lost on me. But what is surprising is how life drastically changes without running water. No lavender baths, no easy way to brush your teeth, no cleansing of grubby children after a four-hour car journey, no washing machine, dishwasher, no glass of water to take to bed, no running water for Max the cat to drink (he is furious).

Even Rupert, who has just written a book about water so is well aware of its importance, was amazed. “I feel terrible,” he declared this morning after an evening and night without water. “I can’t believe how not having water affects everything you do.”

It is horrible not to be able to wash rasberry jam off the children’s hands or wash your face before going to bed (not to mention horribly ageing, I read somewhere that if you sleep with your make-up on you age 10 days, luckily I had an alternative cleanser to hand).

We are back to normal now, except the dishwasher, which has packed up. I don’t blame it, after a day and a half of washing the dishes I know how it feels.

I am adopting a Zen attitude (partly as am very excited by the news that Amazon has sold out of To Hell in High Heels) and anyway I find that whenever I go away I come back to some slight problem, be it a nasty letter from the bank or a dead mouse in my sink, or possibly both.

We had a lovely time, as you will see from the pics, so it was worth it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I barely had time to stroke Max and say woof to Wolfie before we were off again. This time with the children to the Savoie where Rupert is researching an article for The Times. This gave us an excuse to come back to one of my favourite places in the world, our friends Norrie and Mary’s house.

It is a little like a spa retreat for me. I walk in and immediately feel relaxed and looked after. I ask if I can help and they say things like “you can sit down and drink your wine.” Regular readers might remember Norrie and Mary and the flying biscuits? They tell the children that when they hear the cockerel they are not to disturb mummy and daddy but to come into their room for milk and flying biscuits.

The downside to this is before 6am yesterday morning Olivia had woken everyone up on hearing a cockerel who is clearly on Asian time.

Olivia, Rupert and I have headed off to research the lakes. Yesterday it was gloriously sunny. I did some evening yoga (or yogo as Leonardo calls it) on the pontoon by the lake, much to the amazement of the locals who were extremely impressed with my pink yoga mat. It was one of those magical moments; the setting sun, the calm lake, the ducks gliding noiselessly back and forth.

Until I heard a voice behind me: “Mummy, we can see your knickers.” I only hope they didn’t clash with my yogo mat.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It really was to hell in high heels when I finally left the launch party wearing my gorgeous red snakeskin Fratelli Rossetti stilettos. After three days of tottering around London in high heels there is not a part of my feet that doesn’t hurt. But it was all worth it.

Yesterday was pretty perfect. It started with TV, then went on to shopping, a massage and a sleep, and ended with a lovely party. Actually it ended for me after the party when I went to BBC London to talk about the book. Then back to the most comfortable bed in town at The Berkeley Hotel.

I am now on the Eurostar heading back home, pondering the high and lowlights of the trip. Highlights are: Getting to the giddy heights of number 21 in the Amazon ratings with To Hell; meeting a woman who interviewed George Clooney (and since you ask, yes, he was everything you could possibly hope, dream and wish for and more); The suite at the Berkeley Hotel with everything you could ever want in a room, including a TV you can watch from the bath and wardrobes that light up as you walk towards them; wandering around London in the sunshine (yes, it was sunny for FOUR days, I bet that hasn’t happened since about 1856); stumbling across a sample sale where I found a fuschia pink leather jacket (can you imagine the joy?); seeing so many lovely friends at the party and having Rupert with me for once.

Lowlights; the red sofa on BBC Breakfast clashing horribly with my jumper (you can guess what colour it is); getting stuck in a size 8 dress at H&M and wondering if I would have to call the fire brigade (but as Rina my publicist said “We’ve all been there honey.”); not sleeping (no change there, the international conspiracy continues); getting my high heels repeatedly caught in cracks in the pavement; leaving Knightsbridge this morning and wondering when I’ll be back.

But a highlight will be seeing the babies, Max and Wolfie.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The call came in just over half an hour ago. “They want you on BBC breakfast tomorrow morning,” said Rina the Arrow Books publicist. “And GMTV in two weeks.” After breakfast TV we have several local radio stations and LBC tomorrow evening after the launch party for an hour between 10.30 and 11.30pm.”

“11.30? Don’t they know how essential a good night’s sleep is in the fight against ageing?” I want to ask. But of course I am thrilled, excited and just, well, happy, that by the end of tomorrow the great British public may at least have heard of the book, even if they don’t want to buy it.

So, now for the preparation. I only have another 12 hours before I start. Luckily I ran across Elle MacPherson’s secret to big sexy hair in Harvey Nicks and bought a pot of it for a bargain £55. If my hair looks terrible tomorrow blame her. I also have a seaweed face mask (which I must remember to rinse off), exfoliators, new nail varnish and a whole evening alone to pamper myself.

Rupert has gone out with his publisher to talk about books. I have the much more serious task of deciding what to wear. I have been lent clothes by top designer Karen Brost (www.karenbrost.com) for the launch party, but I wonder if red stiletos and a strapless black satin dress might be a bit much before breakfast?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am doomed to failure. According to an article in this week’s Economist, to write a best-seller you need to be 30, on TV and writing about sex. The biggest selling book in Germany at the moment is apparently all about female fantasies and written by a TV presenter.

This is not news to me. When I saw the head of book serialisation at the Sunday Times at the Christmas party in December he suggested I might like to emulate Petite Anglaise and write about being in love, pregnant and unmarried in France. I pointed out that this could prove tricky as I am almost over the age when anyone sane has children, and married with three of them.

Today while I was in Paris I had tea with Michael Booth, a writing friend of mine who has just written a very funny book about cooking called Sacre Cordon Bleu. As I was on my way to London for a publicity tour for To Hell in High Heels we discussed how one sells books and agreed that TV is the way forward. So I am on the Eurostar, heading for London armed with ideas for TV shows featuring moi. Now all I need is to turn 30 again and think about something do write about linked to sex.

I think the former may be easier than the latter. I can’t think of a single female fantasy, let alone enough for a whole book.

My publicity tour is not going well. So far I have an interview with BBC Radio Lancaster and, er, that’s it. But I am having my teeth whitened and my eyebrows threaded at Harvey Nicks and going to spend a lot of time I should be doing interviews exploring the underwear at M&S. So when I finally do make it onto telly I will look suitably glam.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a piece for the Guardian’s book blog about how the literary heroes of our youth never change. For example, I was in love with Heathcliff and Darcy when I was 16 and I probably still will be when I’m 60.

Spurred on by Rupert’s dismay that the children watch such rubbish compared with the stuff we grew up on, I ordered the three original Star Wars films. What a treat. We watched all three in rapid succession, it was fabulous, an inter-galactic feast.

I was mad about the films when they first came out and have not seen them since. It was amazing how much I remembered from almost thirty years ago and how the music still gives me goose-bumps.

But something has changed. Back then I was madly in love with Luke Skywalker. He was the first love of my life. I thought he was totally gorgeous. I doubted any other man could ever compare with him and his light-sabre.

Now he reminds me of Leo and I would rather cook him a plate of pasta than go on a date with him. As an Irish friend of mine put it; “It’s all about Han Solo now.”

But the scary thing is that even he looks too young and fresh-faced to really get excited about. So while our literary heroes might remain constant, men in films do not. Do you remember, for example, the first time you saw Gone with the Wind thinking how OLD Rhett Butler looked? Now he looks younger than me. I think I will stick to books.

On another note, I have made it into Private Eye, the satirical magazine read by the media in England and feared by the politicians. This is an extremely exciting moment (even more exciting than being reunited with CP30). The subject of the article is Zoe Williams’ vitriolic attack on me and her basic errors (see blog below One book better than two?). She is made to look like a fool which she thoroughly deserves, not least for calling me a ‘no-mark’. Something I thoroughly object to being called by someone I have never heard of.

Here is the text of the Private Eye article:

Guardian columnist Zoe Williams found herself very exercised recently by what she called “a small but seemingly quite flourishing eddy of publishing” encouraging British women to emulate their Gallic counterparts.

“Let’s try Two Lipsticks and a Lover. This is by Helena Frith Powell, who is English rather than French, but – praise be to God – met a Frenchwoman once, who told her what one needed to achieve Frenchness…This no-mark Frith Powell, and when I say I am amazed, I am not being hyperbolic, this really does amaze me – managed to string her observations about the French into another book, All You Need to be Impossibly French.

This would be a fair observation, but for three things: firstly, that Frith Powell is half-Italian and half-Swedish; secondly, that she may have met rather more than one Frenchwoman, having lived in the Languedoc region for the past eight years; and thirdly, she has only written one book on the topic, All You Need to be Impossibly French being the name of the US edition of Two Lipsticks and a Lover.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008