This weekend Leo made his big-stage debut at Abu Dhabi’s National Theatre. He played the King in his dance school’s ballet performance. I was totally over-excited the minute I saw the programme. There was his name, up at the top, among the stars. When the show began I could hardly stop myself weeping/laughing/squeling with delight.

He was a gorgeous king; regal, precise, elegant and, more than anything, soooo cute. He sat on his throne surveying his domain with his little feet dangling in the air because he was so much smaller than the chair. We were not allowed to take pictures but I will post one as soon as I get my hands on one.
Rupert and I chatted about him later on. We decided that he is an amazing little character. Whatever he does; be it ballet, piano, football, tennis or swimming, he totally throws himself into and loves. He never ever complains about going to anything or grumbles the way the girls always do. Today on our way to ballet he turned to me and said: “Mummy, I LOVE ballet.” And that’s just about his attitude to everything.  How did that happen, and how can I get some of that? Or more crucially, how can I pass it onto the girls?

Meanwhile it is the French Open which has, in the past, been an excuse for me to plaster pictures of Marat Safin all over the blog. Sadly he has been knocked out so while we wait for Leo the King, here is one of the king of the French (Open), Rafa. At least for the moment, as I write there is a Swedish man who looks like he could beat him. A bit of a moral dilemma for me. But not that much….I know who’s picture I would rather post.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

The American writer Kin Hubbard once said: “No one can feel as helpless as the owner of a sick goldfish.” I disagree. I can’t imagine anyone feeling more helpless than I did last night when Olivia woke up with a temperature of 39.7. I lay there feeling the heat come from her little body and quickly decided to take her to hospital. I may be helpless, but others are not.
She has been ill all week, as have I, but she has had a temperature which I have been spared from. It is an incredible thing, a temperature, because when it is there it is so scary and you think it will never go. But then when it goes you forget how awful it was. A bit like childbirth.
At the doctor’s yesterday (before the nocturnal visit) we had a meningitis scare. That was more than scary. For some reason their blood pressure machine went off the scale and when Olivia refused to move her neck they feared the worst. The main man was called in, a Dr Styles, and he quickly put my mind at rest. But for a moment I was staring into the abyss.

This morning at 3 am (and can I just add what a pleasant place Abu Dhabi is at that time of the morning) they said they needed to bring her temperature down. Olivia refused to take any medicine so they asked me rather gingerly if she would mind a suppository.

“Of course not,” I told them. “We come from France.”

They monitored her for an hour and a half and her temperature came down to 37.6. Phew. She slept well and is now in bed watching ‘Enchanted’ with Dr McDreamy. He may be even more effective than the suppository. I am going to snooze next to her and hope the scary moments are over…..
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Nicolas Sarkozy”s visit here this week has reminded me of another Frenchman we had visiting a couple of weeks ago; the operatic tenor Roberto Alagna. He is married to the soprano Angela Gheorghiu whom I interviewed when she was here in April.

Angela has a reputation for being a diva. But she was charming, courteous and talented. She sang beautifully at a concert here and all were enamoured. It was another story with M. Alagna however. He chose to sing with a microphone. Heaven knows why. But the result was that his voice sounded like a bad recording. The beauty of an opera voice is in its purity. M. Alagna’s voice sounded about as pure as a bad telephone line in a storm.

At the interval I left in disgust. I figured being the half-Italian daughter of an opera critic I was entitled to storm out. I heard the following day from a French friend of mine who had been at the concert and caused a small riot during the interval.

She is a very well-connected friend and knew all the organisers of the concert. She demanded they come out from behind the scenes to talk to her and explain themselves.
“Please ask him to get rid of the microphone,” she urged. “This is what the audience wants, the way he is singing now is a scandal.”

The organisers came back from M. Alagna’s changing room with the following message: “He will not sing without a microphone, what matters is not what the audience wants but what M. Alagna wants. He can sing from a bath-tub if he wants to.”
Well, that might be an improvement. As long as he keeps his clothes on.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Yesterday we had a day off. We went to the Shangri-la Hotel where we started out in the gym then had a fantastic massage balancing our yin and yang followed by an afternoon by the pool. It was heavenly. The girls were not there, preferring to stay with their Arab family, but on a previous visit Bea wrote this blog for me to post….

hi mummy !!!
can you put this blog on the blog you no what i meen .
my blog about the shanbri-la
so i fink that the shanbri-la is very nice when we went in the lift i said this place rocks and it dos really .and after we went to the pools.then i said im going to the big pool! and mummy said im going to the little pool !and after the pools olivia and me went to see the boots i ask someone .can we go on a boot please ?and they said yes .you will stay here for the man. so i fink  that the poeple that do the boot must stay there all day and it is very hot outside but it their job.so thats what they must do all day .
you can put more if you want ok mummy .
xx
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Whatever your political beliefs, I can’t imagine any of you think she should be locked up because some idiot swam across a lake to visit her…if you cut and paste the below link you should end up in the right place.

http://www.avaaz.org/en/free_aung_san_suu_kyi/97.php/?cl_tta_sign=6df31903e6b3419193e3e4debf9ebebb

I had a great time. The other people on the press trip were fabulous fun. I haven’t laughed so much for years.
It was tough: three countries in four days, and all that shopping, as well as luxury hotels and slap-up meals, but what’s a girl to do? I have returned home with a suitcase full of clothes and lots of happy memories, especially of Ireland which I am now totally mad about, even if it does rain ALL the time.

The shopping gang: Stefanie, Alex (both in stripes), me (with eyes shut, just for a change), Laura the lovely PR girl, Sean (tall bloke, so well brought up I am thinking of sending Leo to live with his mother and Sudeshna.  The other two ladies are from the German outlet village.
Collecting the children from school was like Christmas morning. They looked gorgeous. I was almost floored by the hugs and kisses. Bea even wrote me a poem:

Dear Mummy

I missed you so much

You shine like a star in the sky

I’m your littlest daughter in the world

And I love you you’re the best

Mummy in the world

I am back at work feeling a little dazed but it’s great to be home with my little prince, my princess and my poetess. And Rupes of course, who is being Mr Perfect.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Swift, Shaw, Wilde, Yeats, Joyce and Beckett: the list of great Irish literary figures is long and extremely impressive. Yesterday as I wandered around the Museum of Writers I started to wonder why this ‘emerald isle’ has produced so many literary greats.

Is it something in the Guiness? Or the water? Or even the oysters?

No, it is the weather.

The weather here is so bad that you risk drowning by putting your head out of the door. So clearly you have to stay indoors. Because it doesn’t rain inside, or “in the pubs” as one Irishman told me yesterday. And what is there to do inside once all the household chores are dealt with? Especially when most of that list was around and there was no TV. You got it – write.

So there you have it, Ireland’s literary secret. You can see the proof in this picture of James Joyce. He is wearing a hat AND carrying an umbrella and he isn’t even outside.

The shopping in Ingolstadt Chic Shopping Outlet went well; I managed to spend my budget of 250 euros and for that I got a pair of trousers, a cashmere tank-top with matching cardigan (pink), a scarf, a beige wool cardigan and a see-through purple long top you could either wear over leggings or on the beach, with matching scarf. I also bought the MOST gorgeous rabbit-fur coat which will be very useful in Abu Dhabi, as you can imagine. But it was a bargain (in relative terms) and it is saving me from certain death through hypothermia here in Dublin.

Today we head off to Kildare, Dublin’s Chic Shopping Outlet and then Bicester Village in England. The gruelling tour goes on…..

I am in Munich where I have not been since I lived here for a year more than a decade ago. It is lovely to be in Europe; the sky is grey, the food seems fresher and the wine does not taste like boiled sweets. This morning I start my gruelling shopping tour.

I was the last person to leave the plane yesterday. Normally I am itching to get off. But I was watching Changeling starring Angelina Jolie. It was incredible. I had to leave about a minute from the end because the aircraft was empty but luckily someone else on the press trip told me what happens. It is a true story and unlike many films based on true stories I read this morning that Changeling is actually totally based on fact, most of it taken from court transcripts. See it if you can.

Bea continues to show huge literary promise with the following bedtime story she told her father last night:

Once upon a time there was a little girl called Bea.
Her mummy was a great writer. Her daddy was a writer too, but mainly
he played golf…

Give that girl a column!

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

So pity me. Here I am packing for a press trip. It will be arduous. It will be terribly hard work. And it will be tedious. Where am I going? A mathematics conference possibly? Or the annual-train spotters jamboree in Hull? No….I am going to the Chic Shopping Outlets of Europe.

Yes, such is my dedication to my job that I have agreed to spend six days staying in luxury hotels across Europe while I write an article about the best shopping opportunities available there. The organisers are promising up to 80% off designer clothes and accessories. But obviously that won’t interest me. I am there only because I have to be.

The fact that my research entails detailing just what you can buy for 200 pounds in each location makes the whole thing even more of a task.

How will I ever get through this week….?

On a serious but happy note I am thrilled to read that the Iranians are going to free Roxana Saberi. Shame President Obama can’t step in for the thousands of other women languishing and suffering in their notorious jails. But I suppose one is better than none.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

There is good news and bad news. The bad news is I have had a terrible review of my new book on Amazon. The reviewer says there is no way the diet could be carried out at home. Which is exactly the one thing we all worked so very hard to achieve.

The good news is that To Hell in High Heels has been sold abroad. To Poland to be precise. They are going to print 5,000 copies and give me an advance. It is not America, but it’s a start.

Today is Friday. The girls have gone ice-skating in Al Ain with their Arab family (Ali from next door, his wife and eight daughters). Rupert is watching the cricket and Leo is playing the piano – naked. Maybe he could start a trend. A TV show and several best-selling books. I bet he would get better reviews than his mother.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009