Helena Frith Powell

Some things children say you never forget for some reason. Like when Hugo my stepson was about three and in a very solemn tone of voice declared that he was tired because “it’s been a long day”. Or Julia my stepdaughter would wake us up and say “it’s mornin’ time” or ask where the “titten” was instead of the kitten or when Olivia first went back to England after living in France for a couple of years and said “it’s mouille” as we walked down the steps from the plane, meaning it’s damp.

Leo has had a long day. His girlfriend was meant to come and play after school but didn’t make it. He is very serious about her, he even knows her name, unlike the last one.

Then he dropped his quiche on the floor (upside down on the carpet) which sent me into a fury. And to top it all after spending most of the afternoon cleaning the bathroom (I don’t know why he did, he just wanted to) the “gals” as he calls them have messed it up.

He has just collapsed into bed, almost weeping.

“I’m so tired,” he told me as I kissed him goodnight. “Tireder than a turtle walking.”

Now that’s what I call a long day……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

This year it is 20 years ago since I left university. I cannot believe it is 20 years, that makes me feel ancient, wrinkly and generally depressed. But 20 years it is and there was only one way to get through the landmark, celebrate with some old university mates and a lot of South African Sauvignon Blanc.

There were four of us old Durhamites at the beach restaurant, three of us living here and the fourth who had jetted in for a World Economic Forum event.

So Paul, Phil, Katherine and I settled down to lunch. I knew immediately Katherine hadn’t changed in 20 years despite now being one of the most powerful women in the City when the first thing she spotted was a man in a red thong.

“It’s not a good look,” she chuckled. It really wasn’t.

Happily our luncheon companions were more conservatively attired. Paul and Phil (or Phildo as Katherine kept reminding him his nickname was) both became bankers. They are not often seen in public wearing red thongs. Or in private, as far as I know.

Like so many Durham lunches it went on rather a long time. Phildo, being more sensible than the rest of us (which he always was), left around 4pm. I think we left at around 7 but I am not sure.

One thing is for sure though; however many years go by people stay more or less the same. I could never remember leaving a lunch party and Katherine was always extremely amusing and prone to spotting thongs.

“Did you play that well-known intellectual Durham lunch-party game of pass the piece of spaghetti with your mouth?” Rupes asked when I got home. He has a great respect for my place of learning. No, we didn’t, we’re saving that for the 40 year reunion when we can swap dentures instead. That’s something to look forward to. And maybe by then we will all have invested in some red thongs as well.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

I had am anguished telephone call from Schamanee our maid today as Leo, Rupert and I played cricket on the beach.

“Madam, the girls are putting posters up,” she said. “I don’t know why.”

I spoke to Olivia who explained that they are giving a concert tomorrow evening and were simply advertising the fact. The concert will take place at 5pm on the small terrace outside our sitting room.

Sadly I will be in Dubai but I don’t think they will miss me. Apparently several of the neighbours have said they will attend and as I write there is an interested cluster around the sign on the lampost outside our front door (pictured below).

For anyone who has always wanted to see Hannah Montana in real life, do come along. I have seen the rehersals and they sound just as good as the real thing. The song is a rather drab number called ‘Party in the USA’ but the girls have made it all their own…..I cannot imagine what our neighbours will think of it all, but as Bea told me; ‘it’s better than posting it on YouTube”.

In this virtual age it is nice to know they appreciate the value of live music. If you can call it that….

Tuesday night I stayed in Dubai. I was there for the Emirates Woman of the Year Award and went to it with my friend Keeley. She is an extraordinary women. Always up to some high-powered madcap thing or other. Her list of friends (apart from me) reads like a who’s who in the UAE. She should have been up for the award of Emirates woman of the year but they’re not on to her yet.

Anyway I might have known a night with Keeley would not be normal. But little did I envisage it would end with me being driven up the Sheikh Zayed Road at 5am in a yellow Lamborghini.

I have to say there are worse ways to get home. This is a car that roars instead of purrs and goes like the clappers. Thankfully I had drunk too much pink champagne to be freaked out, but I think the journey from one end of town to the other took about three seconds.

My driver, a very nice local gentleman, had the music on.

“Could you turn it off please?” I asked him. “I want to hear the engine.”

I think he realised then he was dealing with a lunatic, which is probably why he drove so fast.

Needless to say I felt horrible yesterday. And I realise now why I am so much happier hanging out with the kids and going to bed at 9pm than sitting in bars drinking and smoking cigars (yes, I know I don’t smoke, but I forgot).

Rupes was very sweet and said it was good for me to go out and have fun once in a while. I think once every four years might be enough. Keeley tells me this sort of evening happens to her at least three times a week. She really should win an award.

I am now going to stay home for a few years but if I am ever brave enough to go out with Keeley again I hope I end up in a red Ferrari and I remember to drink water and that I don’t smoke.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

There is an expression that everyone has their 15 minutes of fame. Well today I had my 15 minutes of hell. I drove back to where Leonardo has his bi-weekly tennis lesson to collect him at 6.15. I was coming from an interview for an article I am writing about Emirati women. Fatima, the girl I had just interviewed, was one of the most charming and interesting young women I have ever met, but still I left in good time to collect my gorgeous son.

I got to the tennis court at 6.15 on the dot. There was no sign of Leo. The other class has already started. Rhida, the coach, runs a tight ship. “Check the basketball courts,” came the advice from the other mothers.

I was already worried. Rhida and I had talked briefly when I left Leo. I warned him I may be a few minutes late to collect him. “He always just stays around the court,” said Rhida. And he does. In the two months since lessons began Leo has always just hung out next to the court, endlessly hitting a ball against a wall, no matter how long he has to wait, sometimes for 45 minutes if one of his sisters has their lesson after his.

This evening he was nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere. A whole gang of lovely Lebanese mothers were galvanised into action and scoured the place. Rhida even abandoned his tennis group to join the search. I thought I was going to cry the whole time; the only thing I could think about was my little boy and how I longed to hold him. I imagined all sorts of awful things. He is so trusting, he would probably go anywhere with anyone who told him I had sent a message to collect him. But as the Lebanese mothers kept saying: ‘this is a very safe place’.

We alerted the security guard and a few minutes later he came to find me with the news that Leo was waiting for me at the main gate. I have no idea why he decided to head over there, he has never even been there before. I rushed there to find him happily collecting old rusty nails from the ground. He didn’t seem remotely pleased to see me as I threw my arms around him and hugged him.

“He told me he was waiting for his mummy; that she drives a Volvo and her phone number starts with 050 but he couldn’t remember the rest,” said the jolly man at the gate who was keeping him company.

Telling someone here a phone number starts with 050 is a bit like living in New York and saying a number starts with 212 or 0777 for a mobile in England.

I took him back to meet the Lebanese mothers and to put Rhida’s mind at rest. He was greeted like a returning hero, even though he’d only been gone for 15 minutes. He seemed a little confused by all the attention.

“I didn’t quite miss you,” he told me in the car. “The tennis was great.”

For 15 minutes I more than quite missed him. And he now knows my phone number off by heart.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

There is a rather old-fashioned English expression to describe two people that are extremely similar. They are peas in a pod.

I think one could safely say that Olivia and I peas in a pod. She looks like me (or rather like I used to) and we have scarily similar personality traits. For example, we have both been described as control freaks on numerous occasions. In fact the first time it happened to Olivia was at her christening. Mrs Miller, her godfather’s wife, held her in her arms and said: “This child is a control freak.”

Olivia told me last night on the way back from playing tennis that she remembers her christening, if not Mrs Miller’s early diagnosis.

“I thought you were trying to throw me in the lake,” she said. “And all around me there were people crying.”
It is very possible that there was weeping, due to the auspicious occasion, but there was no lake.
As I mentioned we were driving home after playing tennis. It seems even on a tennis court we are peas in a pod.

“Every shot I hit either goes out or in the net,” she yelled at one stage.

“Welcome to my world,” I told her.

Having said that, if she continues to have lessons at the rate she is (yes, somehow she has managed to convince me to arrange private tennis lessons, as well as the group ones she has, because she too wants to see Rafa and Federer and her big tournament is on the 21st), she will at least be able to hit the ball over the net when she gets to my age.

I suppose you could call that evolutionary progress. But it’s not cheap.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

i first started by going in atlantis to go to the shark tank but it was to much of a kueu so me and daddy decided to go on it but he did’nt know where to put his bag so i was waiting at the little pool when he came back we decided to go but olivia and leo came back so we went on the rapide insted after the rapides we went to buy some fruit while waiting for hugo,julia ps tom so we sat down on the grass and then olivia went looking for them while she was looking they was talking about how they were gonna find them.
so then olivia found them and they ate a little bit of fruit and we had some little balls that was ice cream i took strawberry and chocolate it was delicious then we was waiting bye the stairs all together eating our fruit and i said cuz we had’nt gone on a slide yet so olivia saidNo >i replyed tom could bring you up >said julia daddy said so tom bringed me up to the leap of faith but when we arrived there had such a hudge kueu and we had to go home but thne to get infront we pretended to go and look for mummy.tom said for pretend so we went to look and we just placed our selfs infont of people .But then we had some people infront of us who saidyes>we replyedthey said tom replyedthey said tom said tom saidthey both told me >ok>i replyed said tomthe said .oh ok>i replyed then the people infont of me passed and it was my turn i was so scared i did’nt want to do it .i said to tomhe saidi said leaning to see the slide he saidi said because i was going before him so i wouldn’t get scared and decide to go down the stairs so i lyed down and crossed my feet and arms and the man pushed me down and when i finished all of the people infront of me were all waiting down there and olivia to she said < no >i said then the girl who i was talking to came down and then tom came downhe said i replyed so we went to daddy,hugo,julia,leo and i said and everyone was hugging me .then we went home and me and leo sitting in the middle but and olivia and julia and tom in the back and hugo and daddy in the front so we went home and we did’nt do much but hugo and julia and tom went on the computer .

november 6 2009 friday
by beatrice wright 9 years old

Bea and Leo entered their first-ever tennis tournament today. The prize for the winner of the tournament was to play with Rafa and Federer when they come over for the Capitala Tennis Tournament at the end of the year.

I realised very quickly neither of my two were in the running. They were (bless them) comfortably the worst players there. I think some of the nine-year olds would have beaten me. But there was one glimmer of hope….the raffle.

The raffle would draw two names who would also get to play the two stars, but it meant staying until the very end of the tournament even though we were being humiliated on court.

There aren’t many things that will entice me to hang around a hot, humid tennis court without a drink in sight. But the potential prize was far too big to give up on. Just imagine, I kept thinking, if we win. And we have more chance than most as there are two of them in the raffle. I mean whoever wins will have to be accompanied by their mother, right?

Finally after almost four hours, the moment arrived. As the first name was drawn out of the hat my heart sank. How stupid of me to waste a whole morning and to put them through all this hanging around. I never win anything and it seems genetically unlikely that my children will.

The first name was disqualified for not being there. Another name was called out – Patricia Wright. No one answered. Suddenly I realised it was Beatrice Wright they meant, I leapt to my feet:

“It’s you Bea, it’s you!” I yelled like the worst possible football mum.

Bea went to the front to be congratulated, beaming. She (and I) were on a high for the rest of the day, and will possibly remain high for another week. After the tennis we went to the cinema to see Michael Jackson’s This is It. A woman in front of us wept through the whole thing, the girls, who had heard Janet was in town for the Grand Prix, asked if she was his sister. She was not, she was just a bereaved fan. Sad as we are about Jacko’s demise, nothing could wipe the smile off our faces.

The lucky winner is asleep next to me as I write and has promised to practice her tennis before her big match. I am going to work out how to use my video camera and plan my outfit. I’m not sure which is more stressful. But I am extremely happy that my genetic predisposition for never winning anything has not been passed on to Baby Bea. As Rupes said, Napoleon would approve, he liked his generals to be lucky.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

This week has been mainly about recovering from last. It all seemed very empty and mundane with the glamour of the Formula 1 gone…but all that is about to change.

This evening the children and I are off to Dubai to see Navi. For those of you who haven’t heard of Navi, he is the world’s most successful Michael Jackson lookalike/impersonator. I interviewed him and must say he was charming. As the interview was on the phone I can’t tell you how much like the King of Pop he looks or not, but I will tell you all after this evening.

Tomorrow night I am going to a big party at my friends Noch and Bruce’s house. Noch is one of my oldest (not in age) friends here and one of the reasons I like it here so much more than France. This is a woman who laughs, drinks, eats and sings along to bad pop songs with me. So everything a French woman is not. Added to which she speaks English, another huge advantage. In fact she is English, but English colonial, so more amusing than most.

Anyway the idea of the party is that we all come dressed as the thing we wanted to be when we were growing up. After much thinking I have decided to go as Audrey Hepburn, partly because I did always want to be her but also because my view of fancy dress is that you should wear what makes you look good and no one can ever look bad in black and white. What would you go as? I guess I won’t have to ask Navi that question if I meet him this evening…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

It’s over. All the preparations, the building, the publicity, the hype and the actual race. As I write the drivers are probably boarding their private jets on their way home to Monaco or wherever it is they live.

At the last minute I got a ticket to the race. It was incredible. The sound of the cars is like nothing you’ve ever heard. They give you ear-plugs as you go in and you do need them. The raw energy and vibe carries you away; it really is a very sexy sport. I tried to take a picture of Jenson Button as he roared past, but think I missed him….

So life is slowly returning to normal. No more champagne, no more parties and no more deciding what to wear to yet another five-star event. Quite nice really. And the children are pleased. As Bea said to me last night when I told her off about leaving her homework to the last minute: “Well, it’s not my fault you were out with Prince Andrew all weekend.”
Not strictly true, but my weekend and indeed week was dominated by the Prince and the interview, which is now all written up and going to press tonight. Check it out on Saturday at www.thenational.ae.

I am onto my next feature; cupcakes. Slightly less glamorous and exciting than the Prince, but at least you can eat them and I can go to bed at 9.30pm every evening this week.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009