Bitter? Moi?

Posted on September 6, 2009 by Helena

When I was last in London I had lunch with an editor I work for at the Daily Mail. Thankfully the credit crunch has not yet hit Derry Street. As we sipped our champagne he asked me if I ever read Allison Pearson’s column in the paper.

“Yes,” I replied.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“I think how much more amusing I could be.”

And how much more amused. It has to be said, hers is a dream job. Apparently she earns around a quarter of a million pounds a year for a weekly page and has a full-time researcher to help her. She gets to write about anything she wants to and millions of people read what she has to say. But I don’t resent her, in fact I think she’s rather good. And she did write that very funny book (with cop-out ending though) called I don’t know how she does it.

“What do you think of Liz Jones?” asked my editor.

I almost had to down my champagne in one. This is a woman I really do resent. I find her futile, irritating, boring and totally self-obsessed.

“I hate her so much I won’t even click on her stories online in case her rating goes up,” I told him.

For some reason the powers that be at the Mail think otherwise. They have turned her into a star; their star. She always has some drivel in there, invariably about her. Her and her ex-husband, her and her horse, her and her underwear, her and her move to the country. Today the top slot online is dedicated to a story about her and her assassination attempt. Yes someone tried to shoot her (not me, I promise). Actually they shot her mailbox. She was in New York at the time (like you are) so in no immediate danger.

But why have they decided this talentless woman who seems to live through the press a la Jade Goody is someone worth turning into a star columnist?

“Why not me?” I asked Rupes.

“You’re too posh,” he told me. “Drop the Frith. I know, call yourself Wright.” (His surname)
He has a point. I remember being on some morning breakfast show once when one of the other participants turned to me and said “nobody likes a toff”.

I am not a toff. And anyway, even if I were, now that an Old Etonian is about to become Prime Minister, surely they are all the rage?

But while I wait for my chance I figure my best bet is to write a hugely successful book along the lines of Allison Pearson’s and then take her job when she retires. Either that or wait for the mystery mailbox gunman to strike again….

So long Safin

Posted on September 4, 2009 by Helena

A couple of days ago after he was knocked out of the US Open Marat Safin retired from tennis. He is 29. Tennis will never be as much fun to watch again. I loved Safin. In a world where everyone is so perfect and determined and single-minded he was a breath of women-chasing, car-racing fresh air. And very sexy.

He has that rather Russian, Byronic manner; he sulks and loses his temper (he himself estimates he has broken 300 tennis rackets since 2005) and lets his emotions get the better of him. If Federer is the Mozart of tennis, then Safin was the Pushkin of tennis, or maybe the Heathcliff of tennis. But can Heathcliff ever be Russian? Anyway, if anyone can find his resignation speech online please let me have the link, I can’t find it. And talking of Heathcliff did anyone see ITV’s new adaptation of Wuthering Heights? It was really excellent. Made me want to roam the moors looking for my hero. But I hear he’s retired….

A year and a month on

Posted on September 2, 2009 by Helena

Today was the first day back at school; “la rentree” as the French call it (with an accent which I cannot find here). In France it is akin to Christmas in importance. It is something you prepare for weeks in advance. I remember once a French friend of mine was thinking about getting a job in June. “But of course now it will have to wait until after la rentree,” she told me.

I have taken on this French custom and been planning today for weeks. For example I bought all their school kit in France to save me struggling to find it here, especially as all the shops are shut during daylight hours for Ramadan.

As we drove them to school Rupert and I remembered the rentree last year. We arrived at school in a taxi sweating and fretting, we had nowhere to live, no friends here, the children were not happy and we all felt totally unsettled, poor and miserable. I was ready to turn around and move back to France. It is amazing how much has changed. Sad as I was to leave France yesterday, I am really happy to be home. The children were perky and excited this morning despite the fact that I woke them up at what was 5am European time. Here they are ready to go.

We have a lovely home, our jobs are great, we have two cars and tonight we are invited to a big party with friends. We won’t dwell on Rupert’s mid-life-crisis-vehicle (Ford Mustang if you must know, with red leather seats) but the point is, if you had told me a year ago where we would be today I would not have believed you. I hope that doesn’t sound smug and of course our lives are not perfect. But it is nice to look back and feel you have moved upwards instead of downwards.

The major difference (apart from Rupes’s car) being how happy the children are to be back and how well they have taken the rentree this year.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009