Question: what do Gwyneth Paltrow, Hugh Grant, Mika, Clive Owen, Kevin Spacey, Michelle Rodriguez and I have in common? Answer: we were all at the Laureus Sports Awards at the Emirates Palace Hotel on Wednesday night. The Oscars may have been and gone on Los Angeles, but here in Abu Dhabi we had our own version.

The evening started as well as it could. I walked into a lift of seven or so Springboks. “I can now die happy,” I told Rupert, who looked quite grumpy. He soon cheered up though when Gwyneth wafted past in a shimmering gown looking like an angel.

The ceremony was great fun, a bit like the Oscars in format and hosted by Kevin Spacey. Mid-way through Mika appeared with his band and belted out two numbers, it was fabulous. Here I am at the after-party with him, looking dreadful but I have overcome my vanity to share the glorious moment with you.

At one stage one of the organisers came up to my friend Jeremy and I. She leaned forward to whisper in my ear. This is it, I thought, Hugh Grant has finally matured and decided what he needs is an older woman. Sadly she just wanted to tell me there was less of a queue for food at the far buffet. So I didn’t meet Hugh, who was looking slightly rough I have to say though still cute, but I did meet Clive (very charming), Fabio Cappello (very short and wrinkly), Michelle Rodriguez (totally sweet) and Mika, and his mother, father, band and sister who were all really lovely. Mika’s mum and I compared notes about how tough it is to get your children to do piano practice. She told me she had “tears and fighting” all the time and that she used to sit behind them to make sure they did their practice. “I used to nod off,” she laughed. “It was a good place to take a nap.”

We partied until after 3am. From the lovely outside surroundings (see pic) we went to the hotel nightclub where I boogied next to Boris (Becker) for a while before heading home in a star-struck state.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

So my Zeldafication begins in earnest on Tuesday when I go to an advanced adult ballet class with our lovely new lodger Una, who was at ballet school until she was 14. Yes I know that I am not advanced, but did that ever stop Zelda? So wish me luck.

Meanwhile if you have a moment please sign this petition to save a library in Montpellier. I had this email from a friend yesterday and said I would do all I can to help: ‘The Anglophone Library (formerly called American Library) here was abruptly closed by the university Paul Valery in January. A group of us are trying to save the books( 30,000) as the university was planning on putting them in boxes and storing them. We are hoping that a new venue will be found for them and have a lot of backing, including that of George Frèche, but we’ve been advised to build as big a support base as possible. One of the things we’ve done is to put a petition online and if we get signatures of stars that gives us even more credibility. Now I know there was at least one of your books in the library, because I read it, so your name would be very significant. If you feel the cause is good, here’s the link :

www.ipetitions.com/petition/savethelibrarymontpellier’

Dancing and reading are the two things we Zeldas most appreciate…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

I have always been rather intrigued by the idea of the salon; it seems to me a perfect combination of drinking and thinking.

According to Wikipedia it is “a gathering of intellectual, social, political, and cultural elites under the roof of an inspiring hostess or host, partly to amuse one another and partly to refine their taste and increase their knowledge through conversation”.

When I think of a salon I think about Paris in the 17th century, women in satin dresses and men in wigs, or a more modern version which would include luminaries like Dorothy Parker.

But now there is a new image in my mind and it comes from our home. Last night, in our majlis, there gathered 15 of the finest minds in Abu Dhabi (and me) under the auspices of the Toronto-based Salon Camden, founded by a Pakistani-Canadian called Azmi Haq. He flew from Toronto to preside over the first Salon Camden abroad; Rupert and I were chosen as the “inspiring” hosts and the topic was ‘Islam and the West – what can help the reconciliation process?’.

I’m not sure how far we got in answering the question but it was a lively debate. Among the guests we had two Emirati ladies, one very amusing and well-informed Frenchman, a branding consultant from Switzerland, and several others of Arab origin but who had lived in the west like a Lebanese surgeon now based in Abu Dhabi.

I think dinner parties would be better if they took on the form of the salon; there are no “side-conversations” allowed, so everyone is in on the main action. And talking in front of so many really makes you think about what you want to say. I suppose the problem with a dinner party is there would be no one to shut someone up if they droned on too long.

Happily there were no bores there last night. And the good thing about hosting the salon is that if there had been I could just have retired early, citing some intellectual excuse or other.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

Picture the scene: I am doing yoga looking out over a 90 degree view of Jumeirah Beach in Dubai from the comfort of the 34th floor. Someone is pressing the dress I am going to wear this evening to dinner with my husband in a private dining room. Two cleaners are mopping up the Jacuzzi room. Our butler has just served Rupert’s cup of Japanese green tea.

No I am not dreaming….we are celebrating Rupert’s birthday in the Imperial suite at the Fairmont Hotel in Dubai. It is a suite made for what the French would call a famille nombreuse with three double bedrooms, countless bathrooms, a bar and at least three offices. Oh and did I mention the Jacuzzi?

It is a comforting feeling having countless staff at your beck and call, ensuring you have a lovely life, that you are massaged (we had a double aromatherapy massage this afternoon), fed (they keep bringing fruit and chocolate) and watered (the champagne is on ice). I feel like a princess, which is something you can really only get to experience if you are very rich, or a lucky journalist.

And to think I was considering giving up journalism for a more lucrative career; seems to me the best option would be to stay and enjoy the perks. Now where’s my butler….?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

I am the victim of a hate campaign from an otherwise peace-loving nation. It is not a nice experience. I am being inundated with emails, comments and facebook messages from extremely angry Swedes. The reason for their anger? An article I wrote for the Daily Mail in 2006 on the eve of Sweden’s world-cup football match with England where I was rude about my former home country.

These Swedes have clearly failed to understand the first rule of journalism: simplify and exaggerate. Of course I don’t find Sweden as boring as I wrote, if I did why on earth would I go back there for the summer whenever I can? Why do I go to IKEA every weekend? Why do I make the effort to speak Swedish to my children. But for the purposes of the piece, I wrote about the negative aspects of the country. And it is true that I would never consider living there again. In part because it is so boring, but mainly because it is too bloody cold.

I have been shocked by some of the emails. Offensive, abusive and, worst of all, terribly badly written. Most of them are rants about how horrible England is and how I belong there and never deserve to set foot in glorious Sweden again. And then more abuse about me. How I am certainly not Swedish as I am so unpatriotic not to mention boilingly ugly. And how COULD I be so disloyal?

I sent a few to my mother (who is 100 per cent Swedish). She told me to ignore it, or better still, write another article about them.

Anyway to any Swedes reading this whom I have inadvertently upset: I am sorry. I love many things about Sweden and I may have been a bit harsh in my article. But at least it got your patriotic juices flowing and gave you all something to complain about apart from taxes and the snow.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

We were at the hairdresser’s yesterday reading short story entries for the magazine’s annual short story competition while Hassan transformed our lanky hair into luscious locks. Here is the outcome:

And here is an email Bea wrote to Rupert, it is vintage Bea….

Hey papa,I just got my nails plus toes done the colour is beautiful sparkly pink. I love you so much and soon I will be home say hi and how’s your work did you write a new piece in the paper ?Will you please call olivia’s phone when your on your way back home I <3 u (love you )sooooo much sorry to disturb you your probably in the middle of work right now did you know mummy had got a huge hat on her hair ? Well I better get going I have a lot to read so does mummy love you daddy and work hard quick question, r u gonna have your piece on the front page tomorrow?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

While I was in India last week I interviewed the writer Amit Chaudhuri. He was charming and interesting and terribly middle-class. He comes from a middle-class Bengali family, grew up with “servants” as he called them (interesting note we PC Europeans would not think of calling them that but I just arranged for our maid’s visa and in her passport under job description is written just that) and went to private schools.

In a poem I read by him he said that: “My problem was how to suffer, for I knew suffering to be essential to art; and yet there was little cause for suffering. I had loving parents and everything I required.”

This is a sentiment Rupert and I have often discussed. OK so we have had our share of suffering but we have often wondered if we are just not angst-ridden enough to be serious writers. Actually all I ever wanted to be was Jilly Cooper so not much need for angst but you get the idea. Chaudhuri laughed when I asked him about his lack of suffering and said, “I suffered because I didn’t suffer.”

I am pleased to report that Leonardo will be able to call himself a serious writer. He is still suffering because of his “girlfriend”, the feckless Eloise. In fact the total angst and suffering knows no bounds. He won’t even CONSIDER the option of another girl and cries at the very mention of her. Here he is looking dreamy on the beach at the weekend.

The only sign that he is toughening up was that yesterday, after weeks of pleading from us all, he proudly told us “I haven’t called her for two days. Normally I call her every day, all day. Now she’ll be thinking ‘why hasn’t he called?’ Ha. I’m doing hard to get.”

With advisers like his canny sisters, there is no way his strategy can fail. And if it does, it will just be fodder for more poetry.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

If I were to be reborn I would like to spend my childhood, or at least some of it, in Abu Dhabi. While I am mad about a kind of ‘Swallows and Amazons’ upbringing in England I wonder how possible that is any more and also if life as a child here also has its unforgettable elements.

Last night we were invited by the Abu Dhabi Tourism authority to the final event for Gourmet Abu Dhabi. This is a food festival running over two weeks, with lots of top chefs and expensive dinners and wine-tastings. Tickets are normally around £100 each so I was relieved that we were invited, especially as we had all five children with us, as well as Miranda, Leo’s friend.

The children ran from stall to stall picking up delicacies like giant prawns in lemongrass sauce and pineapple flakes with ginger ice-cream. They were fussed over by everyone. The setting was the gardens of a magnificent five-star hotel on the beach with a huge pool in the middle at the other side of which a band was playing.

We immediately recognised the band as the one Bea, Leo and I had seen (and met backstage) in Dubai so the children went to talk to the singer during the interval. Minutes later they had secured their spot on stage. The pictures are not great, but you get the idea. I am proud to say they all danced and grooved and there was not a moment’s stage fright.

When I was their age my pop star practices were limited to a shampoo bottle in front of our bathroom mirror. My point is that this is not only a land of opportunity for adults, most of whom come here to earn lots of money and secure their financial future, unless you’re a journalist of course, but you do then get in free everywhere. But it is also in many ways a land of opportunity for children because you never know what might happen.

I know in England, for example, that Health & Safety would soon have put a stop the appearance of our budding pop stars, even if we had managed to get close to the singer in the first place.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

I went to Cairo for the second time a few weeks ago and hated the poverty, the traffic and the chaos. This morning I landed in Calcutta. It is, if anything, much more chaotic. But for some reason I love it.

There is possibly less pollution, at least the air seems more breathable, but I think there must be more to it than that. Instead of seeming irritating and dusty and nasty, the Calcutta chaos feels vibrant and colourful and exciting. I long to wander down the little lanes and explore, to talk to people and to see how they live. Instead of finding this chaos irritating I find it inspirational. Here are some pictures I took on the way from the airport. I particularly like the Calcutta Ferrari, look for the famous horse.

Maybe my enthusiasm for India is in part due to its people. They are noble, gentle and kind. On the plane I met a gentleman from Hyderabad who asked me what country I belonged to. He then helped me get a taxi and made sure I was all right. When I thanked him he said; “It is my duty to help a foreigner in my country”.

This afternoon I am interviewing the author Amit Chaudhuri and then I fly out at the crack of dawn back to my babies. I can’t wait to see them and to bring them to see the charming chaos of India soon

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

Carla said this morning at breakfast that we should always remember this trip and how wonderful it has been. For example, if we get captured by Somali pirates we should think about how happy we were at Shreays and how beautiful it is.

I think these past few days I have understood must be what it is like being a princess. We are alone in this luxury retreat and treated like royalty. We probably wake up a bit earlier than your average princess, but that is to do yoga, so I don’t mind.

In case I ever do get kidnapped by Somali pirates I am going to list some of the special things about Shreyas here so I can remember them:

The tree opposite the yoga pavilion which I focus on when I do my tree pose

The flowers strewn over the tables at mealtimes

The ginger tea

The smiling zen staff

The sound of my yoga instructor’s voice when he says ‘balance’ and ‘be aware of’ whatever part of my body I am meant to be aware of or ‘very good’ which he doesn’t say very often

The amazing food; day after day

The dinners, always candlelit and in a different part of the garden

The crisp, clean, elegant swimming pool

The little garden with flowers and a tree in it outside our tent which is almost part of the bathroom (there is no wall)

The tall palm trees swaying gently in the wind

The massages from Jason who has magical hands

The library where you feel you could spend a lifetime reading all the books (not all, there are some terrible ones, left behind by people I assume when they realised how bad they were)

The morning and evening sun by the pool

The sound of birds all around

And just in case this list isn’t enough, here are some more photos…

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010