Helena Frith Powell

I am not talking about human babies, but books. Today my latest book comes out; The Viva Mayr Diet – 14 Days to a Flatter Stomach and a Younger You.

I have decided that books are a little like babies, if a little more profitable. They have a gestation period, a birth (launch) and then they take on a life of their own.

This evening we will drink some champagne to celebrate number five. And tomorrow I start work on baby number six…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

This morning during the hour I spend with my children before they go to school it occurred to me that the difference between working and being a stay at home mother is that at least in an office you have some control over events.

OK so things can go wrong in an office, especially on a magazine. You’re about to go to press and you realise you have five less pages of ads than you had that morning. Or someone files some copy that is unreadable. Or the cover story about Jennifer Aniston is suddenly out of date because she has turned lesbian and moved in with Jodie Foster. But at least you are dealing with (normally) rational people and chances are you won’t have more than a few disasters a week.

This morning was an orgy or problems. Leo woke us all up at 6am by putting the TV on full blast. Then Bea lost her homework, then Olivia went semi-hysterical because she didn’t want to go to school, then she calmed down at which point Leo called her a doughnut which sent her into another frenzy and then she started playing the piano which Bea wanted to do and so on and so forth.

“What if daddy and I behaved like this?” I yelled.

But we don’t. Mainly because he was out playing golf. Mental note to self: take up golf.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Just when you thought Brothers & Sisters could get no better Rob Lowe shows up. I first fell in love with Rob Lowe when Hotel New Hampshire came out. That was in 1984. We go back a long way. I met him a couple of years ago. I was sitting at Oriel’s wine bar in Sloane Square having a drink with my great friend Carla. He walked past us.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Carla. “I just have to do this.” I sprang from my seat, accosted Rob and told him he was the first love of my life. He was sweet. It probably happens to him at least twice an hour. He even said hello to Carla who was busy muttering “shameless” into her wine glass.

“Come see my play while you’re in town,” he said, grinned that cheeky grin and walked away. I did go and see his play, he was in A Few Good Men. He played Tom Crusie if you know what I mean.

Anyway, this has all got me thinking. Are soap operas the equivalent of the romantic novel? Are they the replacement for books like Pride & Prejudice, Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre? And if so, are we a new generation of Emma Bovarys, constantly dissatisfied because Rob Lowe is not about to show up on our doorstep?

I was just wondering.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Olivia and I are addicted to Brothers & Sisters. We lie on my bed under the blanket and watch it on a portable DVD player. We have watched Grey’s Anatomy together, along with the first season of Desperate Housewives, before I decided it was too grown-up for her.

One thing I have never allowed the girls to watch is Sex and the City. My box set is on top of the cupboard, hidden away. I love Sex and the City or SATC as we call it. I love the glamour, the intrigue, the fashion, the plots. And I am mad about Mr Big. On Wednesday night I went out with three girlfriends. We discussed boyfriends, affairs, husbands, shoes – all the usual.

“We’re so SATC,” said one of my friends.

Little did I imagine that while I was out acting SATC, my daughters were at home watching it.

Yesterday the secret came out. We were in the car when Bea pulled a pouty face and said “this is what Samantha does.”

Immediately I knew. It was like one of those moments when suddenly everything makes sense. They tried to deny it but there was no going back. So we started to discuss it.
“Did you see the bit where Carrie breaks up with Mr Big?” asked Olivia.

“What are crabs?” asked Bea.

I think it may be time to buy a safe.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

When we left France, we needed to find a home for was Sushi Sam, Olivia’s goldfish. He ended up in a lovely place. In fact he ended up where I want to end up – in the Savoie. I don’t want to live in a washing trough but I do envy his view of the green hills and the little lane he lives on that leads to our friends’ house one way and the church the other way. Sushi Sam has a friend in the Savoie as well. He is called Sausage John. We left them in August and were confident they would remain close friends. Then we had this email from our friend Norrie…..
“As you know I walk past the old stone washing trough near the dairy-farm twice every day and always check on Sushi Sam and his friend Sausage John. Three evenings ago Sushi Sam was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he is hiding in the weeds,I thought. But in the morning he still wasn’t around and I prodded the weeds and dead leaves at the bottom just to make sure. Sausage Sam swam away from my stick, but no sign of his friend.
I then remembered that I had seen a family with two children looking into the trough on Sunday afternnon. The schools are on Easter holidays and there are a few strangers about.

The Rescue: I waited around one evening until I saw them again and asked if they had seen the missing Sushi Sam. I explained that he was the friend and pet of  a family I know and especially their older girl who would miss him if he wasn’t there when they came back in Summer.  There was an exchange of looks but no-one said anything.

Yesterday Sushi Sam was back and swimming happily side by side with Sausage John.
It seems that the little girl only wanted to keep him during the holidays and was sorry that she didn’t know he really belonged to another little girl. Could she still come and watch them from time to time on their walks.
End of story.
Love from The Rescuer.xxx”

My Blackberry has a leather case which you can clip onto your belt or trousers. This morning as I walked to the shops with the sun behind me I caught sight of my shadow on the ground in front of me. In the shadow my Blackberry looked like a gun in its holster poised for action.

Is the Blackberry the modern equivalent of the gun in the wild west? But instead of firing bullets we fire off emails?

Just a thought. Have a good weekend.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

The big news today that the world’s first ever cloned camel has been born in Dubai has been dwarfed by the truly important story: I have my first BlackBerry.

Obviously I will now be too busy “crackberring” to write this blog, but there we are.

I have to say it was love at first mega-bite as I received my welcome email closely followed by a reply to one from me to Rupert saying ’send me an email now’. The miracle of emails arriving in my hand was almost too much to bear. After all these years of failed Wi-Fi connections, phone-cards that don’t work, wires that don’t connect. All that is in the past. My BlackBerry and I are as one.

It may have taken me almost as long to get on to it as it did to clone the camel (around seven years apparently), but now that I have it, I am not going to let it out my sight.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Today is Easter Sunday. I have memories of Easter in Sweden with lovely cardboard eggs filled with sweets and goodies. We would dress up as ‘Easter Hags’ or witches which meant painting our faces and wearing head scarves. The idea is you go from house to house begging sweets. It is also a throwback to the belief that during Easter all the witches in Sweden flew off on their broomsticks to meet at a place called Blakulla. Funnily enough we lived on Blakulla road. So we didn’t need to fly anywhere.

Then there was England with chocolate creations like Cadbury’s Cream Eggs. These seemed to me aged ten the most gloriously delicious thing you could ever eat. My tastes have changed thankfully.The thought of all that sugar turning the remaining collagen I have brittle makes me panic. One of the downsides to writing about anti-ageing.
In France during the last Easter egg hunt we had the eggs all melted. We found them months after the event, misshapen and still in their silver foil wrappers.

Obviously in Abu Dhabi Easter is a bit of non event. For a start just driving your eggs back from the shop might melt them. I have woken early and am trying to come up with a plan. Tricky as I am working today. But at least we can have boiled eggs for breakfast. A good old fashioned start to Easter. And my collagen will still be in tact.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

There is nothing more tiring than people telling you look tired. I have had three people tell me I look tired over the past three days. Yesterday it was our neighbour Ali, who is a policeman.

“You look tired,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”

One clue may have been that, having waved good morning to him, I then almost reversed into his car as he pulled out behind me.

The other two were women, so I take their comments less seriously. Especially as one of them in French. French women are well known for their unsisterly tactics.

“You’re not on form,” said one. “You look tired.”

What was particularly irritating about this was that I had in fact gone to bed at half past nine the previous night and slept until 6am. And had an afternoon kip.

Anyway I have decided the only way to get these people off my back is to buy concealer. And maybe spend the weekend asleep. I love this picture which on Google is called ‘Too tired to write’….

But back to more immediate matters. I am going with my friend Mo to my first ever spinning class. I know I will hate it. It is cardio and cycling; two of my worst ever things. But Mo says it’s amazing for your buttocks. So at least they won’t be looking tired….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

The lovely designer I met last week told me she has wanted to be a clothes designer since she was eight years old. I too, as a young child, had very fixed ideas about what I wanted to be. Up to the age of around 10 I wanted to be a vet for wild animals (since they have no vets), then I wanted to be a film star (like you do) then a writer. Never when asked the question adults invariably ask children ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ did I not know.

My children have no idea. I am longing for them to show some (any) consistent interest or passion for something. Here is a list of all the things they have tried over the past five years or so: art, judo, football, horse riding, rugby, ballet, tennis, jazz dancing, hip-hop, piano, violin, guitar, swimming, gymnastics and golf. Apart from Leo (who is mad about anything which involves a ball) they have shown no real aptitude or liking for anything. Maybe I have exposed them to too much?

But as a parent all you want to do is let them try as much as possible so they can see what they’re good at. Olivia’s violin teacher suggests she is so good at arguing she should become a barrister. I am not averse to that idea, but was rather hoping he might declare her fit for the role of First Violin with the Vienna Philharmonic.

Bea has said she wants to be a singer, but gave up guitar as soon as she had the chance. So she’s obviously not that serious about it. Knowing poor Bea she will just become what Olivia tells her. Leo will I hope become a sporting superstar so I can spend my twilight years on the sidelines of a cricket pitch, tennis court, rugby field or whatever.

Whatever else it will be interesting to see where their true passions lie. I just hope it’s not polo. Unless Olivia does become a barrister. Then she can pay for the ponies.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009