Yes, it’s official, I am a style guru. Not only did a member of the Tatler Magazine staff try to steal my red fake croc handbag at my book launch, but I am now being PAID to talk about trends and what motivates women to stay thin, pretty, fashionable etc.

I had an email from a lady at a big advertising agency in New York who had read the US edition of Two Lipsticks inviting me to a dinner discussion in Paris. “As someone who not only spots trends but sets them as well, we are hoping to tap into your insight”.

As well they might. At the time I was reading the email I was in the process of setting a trend I expect you all to follow. I was sitting in my office, naked, on a pink towel, waiting for my fake tan to dry. How trendy is that?

The problem though with being labelled a trend-spotter and setter is that I now have a reputation to live up to. What the hell do I wear to this event? I don’t want the assembled trendies to out-trend me. Oh the pressure. At least I have a new Chanel lip-gloss, bought for me on mother’s day by Rupert.

If all else fails I can wear that and the fake tan and emulate the original imperial fashionista.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When Zelda Fitzgerald (wife of F. Scott) was 27 she took up ballet. Not in any casual way you understand, like someone of a certain age might take up golf, but obsessively. She became totally focused on a career as a ballerina, training for up to eight hours a day.

When I took the girls to ballet on Saturday and went into the little office at the dance school to discuss plans for the new school year when Leonardo will start, the school secretary suggested I should do a class too and then they’d have the whole family.

“Oh it’s too late for me,” I said, the unfortunate Zelda always being at the back of my mind (she died in an asylum).

“You’ve danced before haven’t you?” said Bea’s teacher who also happened to be in the room.

I nodded, unable to tell him that yes, I did once do a few evening classes in Kensal Rise, and have spent many happy hours jumping around pretending to be Margot Fonteyn, but that is about it.

“Well, it will all come back, you’ll see. Come Wednesday mornings when you bring the children.”

The matter was settled. I was unaccountably happy, I felt like I’d been given a huge diamond or been told that pink is indeed the new black, but I was also very nervous. How stupid will I look come September when I can’t even force my feet into fifth position. The image of Miss Piggy dancing with Rudolf Nureyev on the Muppet Show replaced poor Zelda.

Olivia suggested she give me a lesson to prepare me. We happen to have a ballet bar in the house (OK I may not actually have done much ballet but I can still obsess, can’t I?) and we spent an hour and a half prancing around. I thought I did OK. Olivia did not.

“Mummy, are you a robot?” she shouted at me on several occassions. “Mummy, I think you’ll be the worst in the class,” was her conclusion.

So it seems if I am to avoid humiliating myself and my children I will have to adopt a Zelda-style approach to this. Eight hours a day minimum. I’m not quite sure how I will do any work or the ironing or cook any meals. But maybe if I go as mad as Zelda did, I simply won’t care.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I received an email a few days ago I would like to share with you….

Bonjour, I happened to meet your famous book “Two Lipsticks and a Lover”. It gives me great happiness. It was fascinating and made me flap my hands. I had lived in France for over 10 years, from 1990. As a foreigner and mother of French children, your book encourages me to ask your permission. I would like to translate your book in Korean language. Looking forward to having your favourable reply, I extend my best respects.

The thought of Two Lipsticks-reading Koreans flapping their hands is too charming and so of course I am going to give her the go-ahead.

When did you last ”meet” a book that made you want to flap your hands and what was it? For me it was Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. I am on the look-out for good books to meet and take with me on our Grand Tour, so any suggestions are welcome.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I would like to give you all an insight into my hard working life. Rupert and I are in St Tropez at the chicest hotel in town, Byblos, which has been the best address in St Tropez since 1967 when Mick Jagger married Bianca on a terrace here. Guests include Brigitte Bardot, George Clooney and, er, my husband and I.

We are on a most gruelling schedule. Here is the itinerary for today:

Breakfast at leisure

Free time to explore St Tropez

1.00pm Lunch by the pool

18.00 Spa treatment

19.30 Cocktails and dinner at B bar.

I think you will agree that this is far too much to expect a person to do in just one day and support me in my letter of complaint to the National Union of Journalists.

As if this isn’t enough, tomorrow they expect us to go for lunch at Club 55. We will no doubt be forced to eat and drink for several hours while watching the waves gently lap the shore and spotting celebrities in exile from the Cannes Film Festival.

Is there no end to our suffering?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I admit it, I am a fattist. Every time I see a fat person I want to throw up. I can’t stand the sight of that blubber blubbering around. If I see a fat person walking into Burger King I am tempted to make a citizen’s arrest.

Now I see that Britain is officially the fattest nation in Europe with a shocking 59% of women judged overweight or obese. This is more than half the female population. What the hell are they thinking about? Chips and deep-fried Mars Bars? Obviously not their health or how to look good in skinny jeans.

OK, so I may care more than the average person about the way people look. But It’s not just the fact that I hate the idea of someone with so little will-power or care for themselves that they let themselves get into that state. There is the deadly serious side to obesity.

Do you know that being overweight knocks NINE YEARS off a person’s life? And how much is the medical care going to cost? And who pays for that?
We don’t mind looking after smokers on the NHS, after all they fund a large part of it, but how are you going to feel when you realise that a vast amount of your hard-earned money is going on treating people for this obesity epidemic? Reinforced beds don’t come cheap. Nor does the medical care to treat cardiovascular diseases, cancer, diabetes, arthritis and a whole host of other effects of stuffing your face at every given opportunity. And before you all start writing telling me for most fat people it’s a medical condition, I sat next to two extremely experienced doctors at lunch yesterday and asked them how many people were fat due to a medical condtion. The both shook their heads.

“Hardly any at all,” said one, “the most common medical condition would be a mental disorder that leads to over-eating. Other than that it’s simply life-style. And eating too much.”

But being obese is no longer a personal lifestyle choice, it’s an issue we’re all going to have to deal with. And look at. And while I’m ranting; a friend of mine used to extremely thin, not through any eating disorder, she was just thin. People would often come up to her (even strangers in the street) and ask “do you ever eat?” How come you’re allowed to ask that of thin people but were you to ask a fat person if they ever stopped eating you would be judged incredibly rude?

Maybe it’s time we started asking them that question, it might make them stop and think before they stuff in that deep-fried Mars Bar.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am in the Richard Kay column in the Daily Mail today (see below for text of article). This is thrilling news on many counts. First they have made me younger than I am (always useful for an anti-ageing guru), second they call me “pouting” and finally it’s only a matter of time before Boris gets on the phone to ask when my new exclusively Old Etonian retreat is going to take place.

I have always wanted to meet Boris; I think he seems extremely amusing and now that he’s mayor of London he will be a useful contact to have. I could talk to him about my plans to introduce 24-hour opening at Harvey Nichols for example and to ban smoking in the royal boroughs of Kensington and Chelsea. Now that all these smokers intent on killing themselves can only do so outside, London air has become extremely ageing. I think it should only be permitted outside zone one. Boris can implement my plan. After the retreat, obviously.

Pouting anti-ageing authoress Helena “To Hell In High Heels” Frith-Powell says she’s planning a special Toffs Weekend at her new health spa, Renew Retreats, in the South of France.

But just who could Helena have in mind? “David Cameron looks pretty fit, but I think Boris Johnson could benefit,” she explains.

After a lovely trip on the Eurostar (now my number one way to travel anywhere due to the opening of not one, but TWO, Marks & Spencer’s at St Pancras International, I am on the TGV speeding towards home.

I am desperate to see the children, Rupert, my dog etc but I have to admit that something approaching depression hit me as soon as I walked off the train and into Lille Station.
Suddenly all the signs were in French, people were speaking French and it all seemed horribly unfamiliar. Obviously after almost eight years of living in France it is familiar, but the fact is it is not home.

But if I am going to get over this depression I have to change my mind-set. When I go to England I stay in Chelsea (somewhere we would never be able to afford to live), I am able to be supremely selfish (I have no children in tow) and I spend most of my time shopping, applying fake tan, having my eyebrows threaded, seeing friends or painting my nails. This is not life. This is a holiday. So from now on, France is going to be home and England my number one holiday destination.

I am going to make an effort to feel more French by listing things I like about living here.

The weather
The countryside
The girls’ ballet school
The straight, empty roads
The TGV
The fresh food
The sense of civic pride
The view from our house
Our house and garden (especially fig trees)
The vineyard at the end of our road with a cross in the corner
Our almond orchard
My new beauty column in Sante Magazine
The lack of people falling over drunk in the street (yes, even in Chelsea)
The lack of women showing less clothes than flesh
The fact that they stop for lunch

And talking of lunch, it is now at least 15 minutes past the allotted eating hour of midday so I need to get my picnic out (from M&S of course, where else? I’m not completely French yet).

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am lying on a bed, eating almonds, covered in fake tan, reading Tatler. The last time I did this I was child-free and about 19.

I am having an evening in after an exhausting day, which started with breakfast with the Features Director of Red Magazine and ended with a massage from Nari, who is based near Notting Hill and claims to give the best massage in the world.

Not having tried them all, I can’t say he’s right, but he is extremely good. He has incredibly soft but strong hands which he uses to expertly pummel your body. The treatment ends with a head massage which apparently children in India are given as a matter of course, their mothers tell them it makes them brainy.

I may not be any brainier, but instead of feeling exhausted after a glass of champagne and two glasses of delicious (English) rose at a lunch with a Daily Mail editor I skipped home, relaxed and invigorated. Actually Nari (bless him) insisted on driving me home (a service he doesn’t offer to all his clients but you might get lucky, check him out at www.thismassageworks.co.uk).

Despite my hectic schedule I have had time to go to M&S four times and can confirm that it’s as blissful as ever. The threading at Harvey Nichols went well and pink seems to be the colour to be seen in, which is lucky for born-again teenagers like me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am risking life and limb to head to Chelsea. Some of you may not be aware that police yesterday had to shoot a lone gunman within metres of Marks & Spencer. Can you imagine, you pop out to buy some matching underwear and the next thing you know some lunatic with a gun is trying to kill you.

Apparently he had a fight with his girlfriend. Sadly it seems he served in Iraq. Yet another consequence of that pointless war.

Anyway, the retreat is over and all went well. I came home and tried to introduce the children to the joys of sleeping with lavender scented yoga beanbags over their eyes. It didn’t work last night; Leo woke up due to a “baddie dream” and Bea woke up because she had a “hurtie leg”. Rupert slept through the whole adventure and was amazed when I looked so tired this morning. Gunmen allowing I shall look forward to a good night’s sleep in Chelsea.

I am going to meet some TV people, see some magazines and have my eyebrows threaded. This threading is a very serious business and as I know of nowhere outside Harvey Nichols that does it, I am forced to go there. I wonder if they sell bullet-proof vests.

But for now I am working on the train, speeding through the lovely French countryside. Everyone around me is eating and the conductor keeps wishing them a “bon appetit” - never let a train journey get in the way of lunch.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

In To Hell in High Heels I say that if the book becomes a best-seller I will retire to the Clinique La Prairie in Switzerland. I have changed my mind. I will come to Renew Retreats instead.

We are on day four and all is going swimmingly. The ladies are being constantly pampered, sleeping, chatting, or doing sun-salutes all over the place. Everyone seems incredibly happy and even my friend Carla likes them all, which is unusual for her as she normally loathes everyone. They are a great bunch; a mix of journalists (this being the first one) and real clients who couldn’t be nicer. It’s a little like a house party but with more yoga and massages than most.

I was extremely nervous before they all arrived. In fact I was nervous when they arrived and for the first few hours, but they settled in well (and I became calmer) and apart from signing one of my books to the wrong person I haven’t done anything too stupid. But there were many times when I wondered why on earth I ever thought I could run a spa retreat.

Now, seeing them glowing and relaxed after four days, I feel happy and proud. I am also glowing and relaxed and I have been wondering if it’s possible to live in this zen-like state at all times. I suppose without a cook, a yoga teacher, a beautician and a masseuse it would be tricky. But my hope is that I can take at least some of this feeling with me when I go back to real life tomorrow.

My friend and yogi Anna went to the chemist yesterday and said it felt odd carrying a handbag. Here all we carry are our yoga mats and cups of green tea. We are about to do the morning yoga session in the sun on the lawn. Then it’s time for breakfast and Tina’s talk on anti-ageing and nutrition. Julie my friend and cook will arrive to prepare a delicious lunch. This afternoon we will loll around the lawn in the sun. I feel rather like Emma in the Jane Austen book of the same name who “lived in the world with very little to distress or vex her”. It’s a very nice feeling.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008