When I went up to Paris for my style talk last week (which incidentally went very well except for the fact that I forgot the cardinal rule of hanging out with French women – never overdress – and consequently looked like a Christmas tree compared with the rest of them) I had lunch with my shopping guru and new friend Ghada.
The first time I met Ghada (in St Tropez, where else?) she recognised the designer of my hat at 20 paces. This is the kind of thing that bonds women for life.
Anyway, I suggested we have lunch and she sent me the following, truly incredible, list of choices which shows that there is no such thing as a casual lunch, at least not in Paris.
Can you guess where we ended up?
 

Café Charlot in the Nouveau Marais
o        Mood: low key café in an going up neighbourhood
o        Bistro food: Salads, grilled fish & meat
o        Shopping : Johnny Farah, Les Bouclards, Surface to air, Tsumori Chisato, Shine…
o        Who : people in the neighbourhood
 

Café de Flore in Saint-Germain des près
o        Mood: a bit Intellectual, a bit snob, a bit low key and place to be seen
o        French café food : salads, eggs
o        Shopping: Calypso, Sonia, Louboutin, Mona, Irié wash, Atika, Le bon Marché…
o        Who: Sonia Rykiel, Le Monde people, Prada team
 

Hotel Costes in Saint-Honoré
o        Mood: if the weather is nice, the terrace is the place to see and be seen
o        Costes food: Club Sandwich, grilled fish, pasta, vegetables
o        Shopping around: Goyard, Renaud Pellegrino, Miu-Miu, Jérôme Gruet…
o        Who : Actors, Comedians, Singers, Models

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

“I hate Sarkozy,” Leonardo told me this morning. The reason? He makes him go to school. “Does Sarkozy go to school?” he demanded angrily, throwing his Spider-man school bag across the room.

“No,” I said. “He has a job. Either you go to school or you have a job.”

As I said it I realised what a death sentence it sounded. Either school or work. Surely there has to be a third way?

I think in a way there is. A very smart lady from French Glamour magazine who was at the round table talk I attended in Paris summed it up well. She said that life nowadays is not as uniform as it once was. You go through several different stages, almost lives if you like. She called it “a Neapolitan cake life”.

For me, our life in England was one layer of the cake, as was university. Our life in France is another. And very soon we may be moving on to another, rather unusual, layer of cake. I’ll keep you posted.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

What the hell is Robert Mugabe doing at the World Food Summit in Rome? This man belongs in jail, not at some international convention. Added to which the irony could hardly be more poignant. He has sytematically starved his people for years. So while he dines in the Via Veneto, his people die of hunger. As one journalist put it, it’s rather like inviting Pol Pot to a human rights convention.

I know a journalise who went to Zim recently. He interviewed a woman who was beaten repeatedly in front of her two children so badly that the Daily Mail judged the pictures too gory to publish. Her crime? Voting for the opposition. I cannot bear to think about the suffering going on there now before the electoral run-off at the end of the month. And yet western leaders welcome this tyrant, this dictator, this despot in Rome. Why didn’t Berlusconi (who loves attention) refuse to give him a visa? Why doesn’t someone shoot him? Mugabe that is, not Berlusconi. He at least is only starving his people of decent television.

Closer to home there is also worrying news. Today Rupert goes in to hospital to have his knee operated on. It is a simple operation, but any operation is worrying. Although possibly not as worrying as his reaction to shaving said knee in preparation for keyhole surgery.

“I can see what you girls are on,” he said, looking rather pleased with the results. I have left him in the capable hands of a friend who will take him to hospital as I whiz up to Paris for my style guru event. If only the talk were about men I could announce the new shaved knee look. As it is, I will have to come up with something else.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We are in Cadaques, where normally at this time of year the children would be swimming in the sea and playing on the beach. But it’s raining. Not the sort of rain you can avoid. Sheets of rain that hit you like a bucket of water.

We are here because Rupert has to write a travel story for The Times about the region and more specifically the boat Salvador Dali gave his wife Gala. We need said boat just to get out of the hotel.

Yesterday we went to the Dali museum in Figueres. He was a brilliant artist (technically) but I just don’t like all that weird stuff. I can’t help it. It seems slightly ridiculous, as was his moustache.

After breakfast we are going to see his house. I am looking forward to it. Whatever I think of his art or moustache, he was a fascinating man. We have tried to instill the children with some interest in goings on. They really have none. They seem most fascinated by the hotel bathroom and Spanish TV channels. I suppose that’s just as well, considering the weather.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008