As I stood at the reception desk at the British Club Kitty’s words went round in my head. Kitty was Rupert’s formidable grandmother. “If you don’t ask, you don’t get,” she used to say before she became a victim of the NHS superbug.

So I asked the stranger next to me how long he’d been here. About 10 years he told me. “Oh,” I replied. “You don’t happen to know anyone who is moving and would like to let us have their apartment do you?”

“Why are you talking to strangers mummy?” asked Olivia. “You always tell us not to.”

“I do actually,” said the stranger, and explained that a colleague of his might be leaving and looking to sub-let his three bedroom flat in the middle of town.

“Well, goodbye then stranger,” said Olivia. “Here’s my card,” I said giving him my best ‘I’m not really desperate but please take pity on me and my three children’ smile.

We got into the taxi. Suda had gone off to Dubai so sent his room-mate to collect us. He is a young, good-looking man, also from Sri Lanka. He told us he was born in 1980. Isn’t that when I took my driving test? I feigned heat exhaustion and collapsed in the back seat. That was one thing I wish I hadn’t asked.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It is tough being back. No calming lake, no one bringing me food every meal, no massages, no doctor monitoring my progress. But I am trying my best to keep up the good work I began. The enemy lurks around every corner in the form of alcohol, chocolate and Pringles. It is also difficult to stick to eating certain things at certain times and dining before seven pm.

Last night instead of waiting for a late dinner with the friends we are staying with I ate a bowl of cereal and then watched as they tucked into a lamb stir-fry and red wine. Was I jealous? Did I want to grab the bottle of wine? No, oddly enough I didn’t.

This morning I woke up bright and early while Rupes slept on (clearly digesting all that lamb and red wine) and tried to do some yoga but was interrupted by Leonardo jumping on my back. I am wondering how easy it will be to carry on the routine once we get to Abu Dhabi.

We leave tomorrow - the Friday flight was full so we have had to wait until Sunday. We fly overnight and land at 07.25am local time. From the airport we take a taxi to the hotel we will be living in for a month. I am thinking about writing a book about it all, starting with the flight and ending, who knows where.

Yesterday we went somewhere that was about as far removed from the Arab world as you can get. It is a shop called Abercrombie & Fitch near the Royal Academy which my husband took me to. You are greeted at the door by a man with a naked and rather impressive torso. Inside it is practically dark but light enough to see that every member of staff (male or female) probably model for Ralph Lauren in their spare time. The place is crawling with gorgeous young men asking if they can help you at all. “Well, now you mention it, you probably can,” I was tempted to reply.

Needless to say I was totally seduced by the whole scene and bought jeans, two jumpers and some little dinky vests, even though a subtle voice inside was telling me that this is really a shop for people under the age of 25.

Despite that it was an extremely anti-ageing experience and I recommend it to anyone who wonders what it is like to be in a room surrounded by young men you have only ever seen on the cover of a magazine before now. And just in case you’re wondering, it felt great. It has certainly given me something to think about on that long flight to Abu Dhabi.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I show up, wondering if I should undress in my car before being greeted by the owners who are charming and fully dressed. Then they take me to my room. En route we pass one of the clients. I have only been to one other naturist in my life; Cap d’Agde, and there, as here, the naked truth (ha ha) is that these places do not attract the kind of people who look better undressed than dressed.

In fact it is now exactly ten years since I looked better undressed than dressed, but I don’t (normally) go around showing my buttocks to anyone who happens to be passing. Being a half-Swede I do get this nudity thing. I like wandering around starkers as much as your next Swede. In fact at our rented cottage I can often be spotted of a morning walking down to the sea and indulging in a bit of skinny-dipping. But here are the facts; the sun is shining and there are no other people about. What I don’t get about this B&B set-up, is how they can possibly find walking around naked with strangers RELAXING.

Also, it was so cold my instinct was to put more clothes on rather than take them off. But as you will see from the picture taken by the lovely and talanted (and fully clothed) Teri Pengilley, I got into the swing of things. Having said that, I was mightily relieved to get into my M&S cashmere jumper and jeans and head off the following day.

One strange side-effect was that I kept imagining all my fellow travellers on the train to Stockholm naked. There at least there were a couple of people I wouldn’t have minded breakfast with. They’re a nice-looking bunch these Swedes, as long as you like blond hair. Rather like it’s a nice place to live as long as you like yellow or red houses, and a nice place to drive as long as you like Saabs or Volvos and a good place to eat as long as you like Salmon or Meatballs. I could go on but have to have my tea now. It’s a Kanel bulle (cinnamon bun) or, er, that’s it….

Copyright:Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am in the Richard Kay column in the Daily Mail today (see below for text of article). This is thrilling news on many counts. First they have made me younger than I am (always useful for an anti-ageing guru), second they call me “pouting” and finally it’s only a matter of time before Boris gets on the phone to ask when my new exclusively Old Etonian retreat is going to take place.

I have always wanted to meet Boris; I think he seems extremely amusing and now that he’s mayor of London he will be a useful contact to have. I could talk to him about my plans to introduce 24-hour opening at Harvey Nichols for example and to ban smoking in the royal boroughs of Kensington and Chelsea. Now that all these smokers intent on killing themselves can only do so outside, London air has become extremely ageing. I think it should only be permitted outside zone one. Boris can implement my plan. After the retreat, obviously.

Pouting anti-ageing authoress Helena “To Hell In High Heels” Frith-Powell says she’s planning a special Toffs Weekend at her new health spa, Renew Retreats, in the South of France.

But just who could Helena have in mind? “David Cameron looks pretty fit, but I think Boris Johnson could benefit,” she explains.

I am lying on a bed, eating almonds, covered in fake tan, reading Tatler. The last time I did this I was child-free and about 19.

I am having an evening in after an exhausting day, which started with breakfast with the Features Director of Red Magazine and ended with a massage from Nari, who is based near Notting Hill and claims to give the best massage in the world.

Not having tried them all, I can’t say he’s right, but he is extremely good. He has incredibly soft but strong hands which he uses to expertly pummel your body. The treatment ends with a head massage which apparently children in India are given as a matter of course, their mothers tell them it makes them brainy.

I may not be any brainier, but instead of feeling exhausted after a glass of champagne and two glasses of delicious (English) rose at a lunch with a Daily Mail editor I skipped home, relaxed and invigorated. Actually Nari (bless him) insisted on driving me home (a service he doesn’t offer to all his clients but you might get lucky, check him out at www.thismassageworks.co.uk).

Despite my hectic schedule I have had time to go to M&S four times and can confirm that it’s as blissful as ever. The threading at Harvey Nichols went well and pink seems to be the colour to be seen in, which is lucky for born-again teenagers like me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

In To Hell in High Heels I say that if the book becomes a best-seller I will retire to the Clinique La Prairie in Switzerland. I have changed my mind. I will come to Renew Retreats instead.

We are on day four and all is going swimmingly. The ladies are being constantly pampered, sleeping, chatting, or doing sun-salutes all over the place. Everyone seems incredibly happy and even my friend Carla likes them all, which is unusual for her as she normally loathes everyone. They are a great bunch; a mix of journalists (this being the first one) and real clients who couldn’t be nicer. It’s a little like a house party but with more yoga and massages than most.

I was extremely nervous before they all arrived. In fact I was nervous when they arrived and for the first few hours, but they settled in well (and I became calmer) and apart from signing one of my books to the wrong person I haven’t done anything too stupid. But there were many times when I wondered why on earth I ever thought I could run a spa retreat.

Now, seeing them glowing and relaxed after four days, I feel happy and proud. I am also glowing and relaxed and I have been wondering if it’s possible to live in this zen-like state at all times. I suppose without a cook, a yoga teacher, a beautician and a masseuse it would be tricky. But my hope is that I can take at least some of this feeling with me when I go back to real life tomorrow.

My friend and yogi Anna went to the chemist yesterday and said it felt odd carrying a handbag. Here all we carry are our yoga mats and cups of green tea. We are about to do the morning yoga session in the sun on the lawn. Then it’s time for breakfast and Tina’s talk on anti-ageing and nutrition. Julie my friend and cook will arrive to prepare a delicious lunch. This afternoon we will loll around the lawn in the sun. I feel rather like Emma in the Jane Austen book of the same name who “lived in the world with very little to distress or vex her”. It’s a very nice feeling.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The irony of returning from a trip to the French Lakes and find we have no water in the house was not lost on me. But what is surprising is how life drastically changes without running water. No lavender baths, no easy way to brush your teeth, no cleansing of grubby children after a four-hour car journey, no washing machine, dishwasher, no glass of water to take to bed, no running water for Max the cat to drink (he is furious).

Even Rupert, who has just written a book about water so is well aware of its importance, was amazed. “I feel terrible,” he declared this morning after an evening and night without water. “I can’t believe how not having water affects everything you do.”

It is horrible not to be able to wash rasberry jam off the children’s hands or wash your face before going to bed (not to mention horribly ageing, I read somewhere that if you sleep with your make-up on you age 10 days, luckily I had an alternative cleanser to hand).

We are back to normal now, except the dishwasher, which has packed up. I don’t blame it, after a day and a half of washing the dishes I know how it feels.

I am adopting a Zen attitude (partly as am very excited by the news that Amazon has sold out of To Hell in High Heels) and anyway I find that whenever I go away I come back to some slight problem, be it a nasty letter from the bank or a dead mouse in my sink, or possibly both.

We had a lovely time, as you will see from the pics, so it was worth it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I finally make it to the centre spread of a newspaper and guess what? Instead of a picture of me in my old wedding dress displaying my grey hair and droning on about my new book they have turned me into a cartoon character.

In fact when I first saw the cartoon on the Daily Mail website I thought to myself ‘why have they drawn a picture of some random woman and put her in my article’? Mind you, it was 5am and Bea had decided that was a good time to get up to watch Zoe 101.

Then Rupert said; “That’s supposed to be you.” And now I look at it closer, it is. But with bigger hair and bigger tits, and in fact longer, thinner legs. What’s not to like? They’ve even turned my old wedding dress pink. How did they know that’s my favourite colour?

I think I will get used to life as a cartoon character. I am always smiling, my hair is constantly glossy (never grey), and I can’t empty the dishwasher or do the ironing.

And more crucially than all that, I will never age…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Never mind the arrival of the Daily Mail in the region, the big news yesterday was that Louis has a girlfriend. “She’s called Elisa. They even kissed on the lips,” Leo told us when he came home from school. He was more scandalised than my mother was when I showed up at home with dreadlocks. Actually come to think of it, she wasn’t remotely scandalised.

Anyway, Leo was shocked. Disgusted from Tunbridge Wells. Then this evening he came home looking all pleased with himself.

“I kissed Louis’ girlfriend,” he told me happily chomping on a carrot.

“Didn’t he mind?” I asked.

“We was hiding,” he replied, somewhat smugly. This girl spells trouble, at four years old. So does my son.

“Mummy, who will I marry?” Leo asked after a minute or two.

“Who do you want to marry?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Louis’ girlfriend,” he said. “But definitely someone with long hair.”

Talking of marriage - one of the ways they may illustrate the Mail serialisation of the book is to show me ten years ago at our wedding (June 1998) and compare the picture with me now, wearing the same dress. Here is an exclusive sneak preview. The photographer kindly said I could publish it for free with a credit. His name is Ben Lister and his website is www.benlister.com.

When I sent my mother the picture she called to say how amazing it was that I could still get into the same dress ten years on. What most readers of the Mail won’t realise is that the back wasn’t done up.

So the pressing question of the day, apart from who will Leo marry, is when did my rib-cage grow, and why?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

As I write the Daily Mail photographer is speeding his way through the Languedoc countryside to photograph me for the serialisation of my book on anti-ageing. And what do I have?

Grey hair, that’s what I have. Right at the front. You can’t miss it. And a spot on my chin. I suppose at least that makes me look young.

I was meant to go to the hairdresser this morning. I thought they would come tomorrow. But no, they are here and will be with me by 10.30 am. When I say ‘they’ I mean the photographer, the make-up artist and my suitcase of designer clothes. It’s not a bad way to spend a Monday.

But back to the hair. I have already spoken to several friends about this, they both suggest shoe polish. Is this wise I ask myself? What if the shade is wrong and what about the smell? Another suggests mascara. But my mascara is black. I am hoping the make-up artist will have some ideas. Meanwhile I am looking for a brown felt-tip pen.

Wish me luck……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008