Helena Frith Powell

As Abu Dhabi gears up for the Grand Prix, I am preparing for what is possibly my biggest interview ever. Tomorrow morning I will be in the Royal Suite at the Emirates Palace Hotel interviewing the fourth in line to the throne; Prince Andrew.

I met him for the first time two nights ago at the opening party of the Fairmont Hotel here. He was much more attractive and charming than I imagined. My friend Amanda was horrified that she had missed out on curtseying the first time she met him so asked if she could do it this time.

“Why on earth would you want to do a thing like that?” laughed the Prince.

“When else is she going to get the chance?” I asked.

I took full advantage of royal protocol, the words ‘good evening your royal highness’ rolling off my tongue as if I said them every day. I felt like Deborah Kerr in The King and I.

The prince then took me to one side and we had a chat about the role of the media in the Middle East. All very grown-up. Obviously I told all my friends who were watching in awe that he was asking for my phone number.

Abu Dhabi is the place to be right now. Last night my stepchildren went to see Beyonce. This evening, while I dine at the The British Embassy, the kids and Rupert will all be at Jamiroquai. And the race hasn’t even begun.

Meanwhile here is a picture of two boy racers to whet your appetite. And if there is anything you ever wanted to ask Prince Andrew, leave me a comment here.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Today was Bea’s ninth birthday. I took the day off work to be with her and do all the things she wanted to do. This included being hurled around in some simulator machine that literally had us upside down and to each side and all over the place. Apparently it went on for two minutes, it felt like several hours. The contrast between that and the blissful Yoga Nidra I had just come from could not have been greater.

Following my near-death experience on the cartoon roller-coaster came the search for a pink MP4 player. After two hours we settled on red. Then we had the party.

I have always thought there is far too much food at kids’ parties so I went minimalist. Two pizzas and a birthday cake. No coke or sprite; just fruit juice and water.No one complained about the food or lack of it, and we still have half a birthday cake.

As for the actual party, well I’m not sure how much the guests enjoyed it but Bea had the best time ever. There was a karaoke machine and once I introduced her to ‘Iiiiiiiiiii will always love youoooooo’ by Whitney Houston there was no stopping her. She sang it again and again and again.

She lost all interest in the presents and the bowling (which we never got round to) and the cake. It was only the promise of a manicure (pictured below) that got her away from the microphone.

After the party we went for a walk. “Thank you for the best day ever Mummy, and for inspiring me,” she said hugging me and kissing me. “I am going to be a singer, that’s all I want to do, if I can’t do that I will feel like I have failed.”

Not many people would call my rendition of that song inspiring. In fact I remember when it first came out I drove all my girlfriends mad on a skiing trip singing it endlessly, but perhaps when Bea makes it to number one they will all forgive me.

Maybe a number one hit will be her nineteenth birthday present?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Rupert often tells me that the girls are just like me and that Leo is just like him. This happens a lot when they are being difficult, which is most of the time at the moment.

I have tended to agree with him but now have evidence that Leo has, after all, inherited something from his mother.

We were driving home from football the other day when Leo piped up with the following statement:
“There’s a boy in my class, so stupid, he has no idea what deux mille plus deux mille makes. I mean, everybody knows it makes 102!”

It has been a busy week, hence no posts. Among other things I have interviewed the Swiss/Italian billionaire America’s Cup winner Ernesto Bertarelli (sooo charming), been to my first-ever fashion show (blooming thin those models) and this evening am off to the American Ambassador’s residence for a concert by the New York Philharmonic followed by dinner with a Sheikh.

And if anyone asks me what deux mille plus deux mille is, I will know the answer.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

As the world wakes up to a new Formula 1 racing champion in the shape of England’s Jenson Button – which is a bit of a blow to Abu Dhabi’s upcoming race in a couple of weeks – I bring news of another champion. Olivia the golfer.

She set out today to the Abu Dhabi Golf & Equestrian Club in confident mood. “I am going to win,” she said, in the manner of the great Walter Hagen, who once held a party to celebrate his victory in the Open the day before the final round. “And I am going to pick up the trophy.”

We wondered how we would break the news to her if she didn’t. She has not played much golf, and when she does, although she has a very elegant swing and expansive follow-through, as often as not she misses the ball altogether.

Dismissing all thoughts of failure, she stood on the first tee today and smote her first drive down the fairway to within 35 feet of the hole. Instructed by her caddy, her father, to take the Texas wedge (a putter) she knocked it to within 8 feet, and lagged it nicely for a par. So far, so good. But surely it couldn’t last?

In nonchalant mood, she strolled to the next hole, called for her 5 wood, practised a couple of times, then hit the ball straight as a die to within 20 feet of the cup. She looked on amused as her brother swished and missed his way to the green, where after tacking up and down a couple of times, he settled for an 8. This followed his 10 on the first hole.

Her first putt was a bit short, but the second stopped inches from the hole. She tapped in for another par, muttering to herself that she should have holed the first putt.

And that was that, two holes in eight shots. The end of her first tournament, and able to call herself a scratch golfer, for so far in her career she has not dropped a shot. At the awards ceremony in the club, she picked up her trophy, having established a club record, and beaten the boys to boot.

Then she went on to solve the Israeli Palestinian problem, turned water into wine, did her French homework and went to bed, for it had been a long day.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Here is my parental truth of the day: the girls are being dreadful and I don’t know what to do about it.  We don’t beat, starve or lock them up. And no form of punishment we think of (in fact about the only one we can think of is no TV or no pocket money) seems to make any difference at all.

So Rupert came up with the idea of a contract. You do this and we do this kind of thing, lay it all out in black and white. Here is Olivia’s, Bea’s is basically the same.

Contract

I, Olivia Wright, agree to:

Go to bed at 8 o’clock during schooldays, having done my homework and got my clothes ready. To get up in the morning, eat some breakfast and be ready to leave at 7.15. I will not clown around in the car, either on the way there or on the way back. I will wear my seatbelt at all times. I will not be rude to Ramina, Nisar or anybody else. I will go to those activities that I have chosen, and will practise the piano. I will not make a fuss during the lesson, nor say that I do not want to play. I will not lose my temper and shout at my mother or brother or sister. I will not go out of the house without first asking permission. At no time will I act the goat. I will also do my homework and piano practice as soon as I come home from school. That includes Thursday so I don’t have any homework at the weekend.

In return, we, Mummy and Daddy, agree to:

Give you 20 dirhams pocket money every week. Take you swimming and out to lunch and dinner when possible. Buy you nice clothes. Look after you and help with your homework, and not go out more than twice a week unless it is work-related. Take you on holiday. Love you forever.

However, any breach of the above agreement and first there will be no pocket money. Then there will be no activities, no new clothes, no friends over and no nice treats whatsoever. Your birthday will be cancelled and you will not get any Christmas presents.

Signed:
October 9, 2009

We all signed it and the girls proudly stuck them up on the wall. That was a week ago. As I write there is no discernible difference in their behaviour so my plan is to get a friend they don’t know to pose as a lawyer and pretend we are suing them for breach of contract. Maybe the threat of a prison sentence will encourage them? I am beginning to understand what a great invention boarding school was…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

The girls have been very difficult recently, arguing about anything and everything. Olivia has moved in with Leo and they sleep together on the spare double bed like a young married couple, while Bea now starts in our bed and is carried through to hers when we go to sleep.

But there is nothing like a common enemy to unite them.

The other day they came with me to drop Leo off at football. They decided to play. Bea, especially, fell in love with the ‘beautiful game’. I have rarely seen her so animated and happy. “I LOVE it mummy,” she kept running up to me and saying. The three of them were on the same team. I noticed at one stage they were shouting tactics to each other in French so the other (Arab) kids couldn’t understand.

It reminded me of Durham University days when the First XV rugby team had a move at the line-out called ‘Helena’ – those were the days….Will Carling was captain (and also captain of England) and he was going out with my best friend Iona. It all seems a long way away from his fall from grace and affair with Lady Diana.

The good news about football though is that I at least understand the rules…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Someone I interviewed once said that the greatest gift you can give your children is a love of reading. I am happy to say that after years of reading to them, encouraging them to read (by paying them 50 pence for every book they finished) and leading by example, they have finally got it.

Last night Bea dived into bed with a great grin on her face clutching a book in French about a princess who wants to be a witch. I recognised that feeling of anticipation and happiness at the thought of time alone with a book. I have it, most recently with a PG Wodehouse book I just finished. They should prescribe PG Wodehouse for depression, better than any pills.

Olivia was reading Ferdinand to Leonardo which was another sight to fill a book-mad mother with joy. This is a book that both Rupert and I loved as children, I even remember it in Swedish.

Meanwhile the house burglary saga goes on…turns out the stereo is missing and lots of DVDs and the TV in the kitchen too.

I just hope they haven’t taken any of our books….at least we had the foresight to bring Ferdinand with us.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Sainte Cecile was burgled yesterday. I got the news from a friend in the village and felt like weeping. The children were even more upset than I was.

“You have to remember it is only things,” I told Olivia, trying to keep calm. “It is not a person.”

She looked horrified.

“Sainte Cecile is like a person to us,” she told me.

She is right of course. The thought of someone breaking in through the kitchen door, rummaging through our belongings and then eventually opting to steal the television before leaving is horrible. A stranger marching through the house, fiddling with things, breaking things, looking for anything of value is very upsetting. We all feel protective about our home and love it like a family member, which is only natural as it has been part of our lives for so many years. Even if I did hatch a callous plan to sell it earlier this year and move to the Savoie.
From here we also feel totally unable to do anything and cannot even ascertain what is missing apart from the flat-screen TV. One of my first thoughts was ‘I hope they didn’t find my UGGs’ – how sad is that? But I didn’t really feel I could ask my mother-in-law who kindly went to assess the damage to see if they were missing.

Meanwhile it has given the children more fodder for their ‘let’s go back home’ campaign.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

I have a strange (according to Rupert) and enduring love of England, and more specifically an England that I suspect no longer exists.

It is an England full of nice middle-class people drinking tea on lush lawns and playing tennis as the sun sets while someone mixes the Pimm’s and everyone behaves like they’re in a PG Wodehouse book. It is an England that you probably only see in films like Howard’s End. But nonetheless I get a glimpse of it every now and again and I am filled with longing to be there.

I had a tearful and terrible longing on Friday as I watched the Household Cavalry perform the famous Musical Ride. The music was emotive; I vow to thee, my country; the Black Beauty theme; Land of Hope and Glory. The Horses and men in perfect synchrony and the buckles all so shiny you could have plucked your eyebrows in them. I was unaccountably happy that the children were witnessing this. Even if it broke my heart that they knew none of the words to any of the songs.

The other thing that is heartbreaking is that much in the same way that I have a terribly romantic view of Blighty, they have a rose-coloured view of France. Everything that is bad here is followed by a “that wouldn’t happen in France”, every time any holidays are discussed all the talk is of going back to Sainte Cecile.

I wonder if this is a symptom of any child taken from a country at an early age? And I also wonder if by the time they grow up, the France they long for will still exist?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

As if you haven’t had enough of me and my encounters with celebs….anyway, in the light of the fuss surrounding his arrest I wanted to share this with you.

Back in, I think it was 1977, I was sitting in the Opera Cellar restaurant in Stockholm with my stepfather. At the time I was a teenager with film star aspirations. I wanted to be the next Audrey Hepburn.

Roman Polanski was seated at a nearby table and he kept staring at me. I of course had no idea who he was. My stepfather, however, did.

“If you’re really serious about being an actress then go and talk to him,” he said.

I was too shy to. But I often wonder how different my life might have been if I had and he had cast me as Tess instead of Natasha Kinski…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009