It really was to hell in high heels when I finally left the launch party wearing my gorgeous red snakeskin Fratelli Rossetti stilettos. After three days of tottering around London in high heels there is not a part of my feet that doesn’t hurt. But it was all worth it.

Yesterday was pretty perfect. It started with TV, then went on to shopping, a massage and a sleep, and ended with a lovely party. Actually it ended for me after the party when I went to BBC London to talk about the book. Then back to the most comfortable bed in town at The Berkeley Hotel.

I am now on the Eurostar heading back home, pondering the high and lowlights of the trip. Highlights are: Getting to the giddy heights of number 21 in the Amazon ratings with To Hell; meeting a woman who interviewed George Clooney (and since you ask, yes, he was everything you could possibly hope, dream and wish for and more); The suite at the Berkeley Hotel with everything you could ever want in a room, including a TV you can watch from the bath and wardrobes that light up as you walk towards them; wandering around London in the sunshine (yes, it was sunny for FOUR days, I bet that hasn’t happened since about 1856); stumbling across a sample sale where I found a fuschia pink leather jacket (can you imagine the joy?); seeing so many lovely friends at the party and having Rupert with me for once.

Lowlights; the red sofa on BBC Breakfast clashing horribly with my jumper (you can guess what colour it is); getting stuck in a size 8 dress at H&M and wondering if I would have to call the fire brigade (but as Rina my publicist said “We’ve all been there honey.”); not sleeping (no change there, the international conspiracy continues); getting my high heels repeatedly caught in cracks in the pavement; leaving Knightsbridge this morning and wondering when I’ll be back.

But a highlight will be seeing the babies, Max and Wolfie.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am doomed to failure. According to an article in this week’s Economist, to write a best-seller you need to be 30, on TV and writing about sex. The biggest selling book in Germany at the moment is apparently all about female fantasies and written by a TV presenter.

This is not news to me. When I saw the head of book serialisation at the Sunday Times at the Christmas party in December he suggested I might like to emulate Petite Anglaise and write about being in love, pregnant and unmarried in France. I pointed out that this could prove tricky as I am almost over the age when anyone sane has children, and married with three of them.

Today while I was in Paris I had tea with Michael Booth, a writing friend of mine who has just written a very funny book about cooking called Sacre Cordon Bleu. As I was on my way to London for a publicity tour for To Hell in High Heels we discussed how one sells books and agreed that TV is the way forward. So I am on the Eurostar, heading for London armed with ideas for TV shows featuring moi. Now all I need is to turn 30 again and think about something do write about linked to sex.

I think the former may be easier than the latter. I can’t think of a single female fantasy, let alone enough for a whole book.

My publicity tour is not going well. So far I have an interview with BBC Radio Lancaster and, er, that’s it. But I am having my teeth whitened and my eyebrows threaded at Harvey Nicks and going to spend a lot of time I should be doing interviews exploring the underwear at M&S. So when I finally do make it onto telly I will look suitably glam.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Today is the publication date of To Hell in High Heels. When my first book came out I was close to bursting with excitement by the time it came out. I counted the days, rather like a child counts the days to his birthday. The same went for the second and the third.

But what I have found with books is that, rather like birthdays, you get all excited about them, but nothing actually changes.

Today will pass much like any other day. Leo will wake up soon and start bossing me about. I will take the children to school where my friend Mary and I will discuss how badly we slept, whether Madonna should be wearing latex underwear aged 50 and grumble about the weather. I will come home and work. Then I will collect the children for lunch, listen to their stories from school, take them back to school and so on. Today will pass just like any other normal school and work day.

Unless of course you ALL go out and buy the book. In which case I may be famous by this time tomorrow. In fact you don’t even have to go out. You can order it from amazon. I am going to have my hair done after the school run just in case.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Yesterday my book about French women Two Lipsticks and a Lover came out in France. Here it is called So Chic! and they have translated the UK title and made it a sub-title. Some of you may remember the scary meeting I had with the foremost book publicist in Paris who told me if I didn’t improve my French this week of interviews would be a disaster.

I kept my side of the bargain. Every day I called my long-suffering friend Jacques and spoke to him in French for around 15 minutes. My husband had to leave the house while this was going on. “I’m pleased you’re doing it,” he would say, heading for the door. “I just don’t want to hear it.”

I read Elle, Marie-Claire, Paris-Match; I watched French television. Even my neighbour noticed my French has got better. I imagined wafting around Paris this week, my publicity team in tow, gracing various TV channels with interviews and using the subjunctive like normal mortals use the present tense.

I am not at all chuffed to report that rather than Paris I am in my armchair with Max the cat sitting on my keyboard while Olivia (off sick from school) coughs next to me. To cheer myself up I look at amazon.fr to catch a glimpse of my newly-published book. It is very exciting to be published in the same language as Flaubert and Proust. Granted their books were a lot longer and possibly less superficial than mine, although I’m sure if Flaubert had got on to matching underwear he’d have written about it.

On amazon.fr there is no cover image of my book and my rating is far, far worse than To Hell in High Heels on amazon.co.uk which isn’t even published yet.

The French public is clearly not interested in my opinion of French women. Apart from one lone presenter that is who has a show on the radio statrion France Inter called 5/7. He interviewed me for his show and promised me a 10-minute slot. I though the name was rather promising, cinq a sept and all that. Until he told me it in fact goes out between five and seven in the morning.

So good work Madame Publicist - I am big among French lorry drivers…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008