Tomorrow I leave this delightful haven that is the Viva Mayr clinic. I think everyone should come here, at least once. I have discovered several important things about my health that will change my life.

First the reason I have always had a pot belly is not because I am built that way but that I have an inflamed small intestine. So my tummy has swollen up to protect it, just like your arm would swell if you fell over and bashed it. The good news is, it should be gone within two weeks. So if I am allowed to wear a bikini on the beach in Abu Dhabi, I will be doing so. Second my doctor has told me that due to my body’s reaction to stress (throwing calcium at it to reduce acid levels) I will almost certainly develop osteoporosis unless I start taking supplements (and avoiding stress). This is particularly emotive for me as my mother suffers from the disease. Finally (and also linked to stress) I am exhausted and have to allocate one hour a day to myself, along with one day a week and FOUR WEEKS a year - this is going to be the most difficult thing to do.

I don’t feel exhausted, I feel great. I have been working hard but also enjoying massages, saunas (to prepare me for Abu Dhabi) and lots of reading. I am almost at the end of A Thousand Splendid Suns which has been a huge international best-seller. It’s a really lovely book, totally gripping and a great if horrible insight into the plight of women in Afghanistan.

I have been trying to define it. It is not great literature, nor is it pure chick-lit. But somewhere in between. I would say, and this is no way a criticism, it is chick-lit for grown-ups. It is compulsive reading, the characters are well drawn but I think one of the differences between this and say F.Scott Fitzgerald is that here we are told things and with Fitzgerald we are shown them. There is a scene in The Great Gatsby where he describes Daisy Buchanan and Jordan Baker sitting on a large comfortable sofa, their white clothes being gently lifted by the wind, the view from the window and the billowing gauze curtains. In that paragraph he tells us more about the characters and their world than any passage that is purely descriptive.

Talking of chick-lit, a spa would make a great setting for a chick-lit novel. Maybe my next one could be set here with a cast of characters including: The attractive and successful female City executive deafened by the sound of her biological clock, looking for someone, anyone, to silence it. The gruff owner of a Premier League football club and his wife who share the exclusive suite at the top of the clinic, but what goes on up there? The brooding Spaniard, a man who seemingly has everything, but who is riddled with sorrow. The aristocratic playboy with a dark childhood secret…..I could go on. A good excuse to come back next year.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Alexander Solzhenitzyn, the Russian Nobel laureate and former prisoner of Stalin’s gulags, has died in Moscow aged 89. I can’t pretend to have read any of his books, but I have at least heard of them and I am aware of what a huge impact he made exposing the cruelty of the gulag system despite harassment from the KGB and then eventually twenty years in exile.

Sarkozy (keen to get on on the act) has called him “an heir to Dostoyevsky”. The letters on the BBC website all talk about how he changed people’s lives, what an inspiration he was and one even says that A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich showed him the power of literature to change the world. Solzhi, as he was known by friends in his adopted America, would probably agree. One amazing fact I read this morning is that in the gulag they were allowed neither pens nor paper, so he memorised everything and kept it in his head until he was free to write it all down.

I think every writer secretly dreams about changing the world, either with a huge scoop or with a great book. But maybe at slightly different levels and obviously linked to your circumstances. Were I living in Afghanistan, for example, I like to think I would write a book that would help the plight of women there. But as I’m not I am quite happy helping women in my world lose weight, discover matching underwear and feel better about themselves. Possibly not as ground-breaking or as important as Solzhi’s epic work, but it suits me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The life of a goldfish is not an interesting one, even if you happen to be Olivia’s goldfish and more perky than most. But Sushi Sam, as he is called, has now discovered a whole new world.

Deciding what to do with the animals was one of the most difficult things about the Abu Dhabi move. The day I tried to put Wolfie into kennels he (predictably and cleverly) vanished. When Rupert went back recently he was nowhere to be seen. If I know him, he’s wandered off to Mme Fontenon’s up the road where he is always welcome. Max is still at the house and fiercely possesive of his domain as our tenants saw when a stray dog arrived and Max chased him off the terrace. Whoever ends up renting Sainte Cecile will have to look after him, that’s just part of the deal.

Sushi came to the Savoie. Our friends had told us about a cattle trough close to them where another goldfish lives. It is a constant temperature, full of good things to eat and has a nice view over the hills. We deposited Sushi Sam there rather anxiously. The other fish is at least three times as large as him. I was worried the change of water would kill him instantly and he would float slowly to the surface and the children would cry for days.

Sushi swam around for a bit then hid. We left him to it. Later that day we went back to check on him. He and his new best friend, now named Sausage John by the children, were racing up and down the trough. As soon as Sushi spotted us he hid, probably worried we were going to put him back in his goldfish bowl.

He has been there for almost three weeks now and we get daily reports from Norrie and Mary; he seems perkier than ever and we may even find that Sushi Sam is actually Sushi Samantha and she and Sausage John start a family.

We are in Surrey, staying with our friend Jonathan. Today we take Leo to London (the girls are both in Italy) and tomorrow night is the launch party for Rupert’s new book; Take me to the Source - In search of water. We didn’t need to look far for water last night, I haven’t seen so much since I went swimming on Tuesday, but this morning the sun is almost shining, as I’m sure it is on Sushi Sam too.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I received an email a few days ago I would like to share with you….

Bonjour, I happened to meet your famous book “Two Lipsticks and a Lover”. It gives me great happiness. It was fascinating and made me flap my hands. I had lived in France for over 10 years, from 1990. As a foreigner and mother of French children, your book encourages me to ask your permission. I would like to translate your book in Korean language. Looking forward to having your favourable reply, I extend my best respects.

The thought of Two Lipsticks-reading Koreans flapping their hands is too charming and so of course I am going to give her the go-ahead.

When did you last ”meet” a book that made you want to flap your hands and what was it? For me it was Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. I am on the look-out for good books to meet and take with me on our Grand Tour, so any suggestions are welcome.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The call came in just over half an hour ago. “They want you on BBC breakfast tomorrow morning,” said Rina the Arrow Books publicist. “And GMTV in two weeks.” After breakfast TV we have several local radio stations and LBC tomorrow evening after the launch party for an hour between 10.30 and 11.30pm.”

“11.30? Don’t they know how essential a good night’s sleep is in the fight against ageing?” I want to ask. But of course I am thrilled, excited and just, well, happy, that by the end of tomorrow the great British public may at least have heard of the book, even if they don’t want to buy it.

So, now for the preparation. I only have another 12 hours before I start. Luckily I ran across Elle MacPherson’s secret to big sexy hair in Harvey Nicks and bought a pot of it for a bargain £55. If my hair looks terrible tomorrow blame her. I also have a seaweed face mask (which I must remember to rinse off), exfoliators, new nail varnish and a whole evening alone to pamper myself.

Rupert has gone out with his publisher to talk about books. I have the much more serious task of deciding what to wear. I have been lent clothes by top designer Karen Brost (www.karenbrost.com) for the launch party, but I wonder if red stiletos and a strapless black satin dress might be a bit much before breakfast?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have finally made it into the Guardian newspaper, twice in a week. I wrote a blog about romantic literary heroes that don’t age, then appeared in a piece in today’s lifestyle section. Today’s article is not flattering (read it here if you can be bothered, it goes on a bit). The writer, someone I’ve never heard of called Zoe Williams, clearly loathes and detests me. This is not unusual in a Guardian writer. She says she is ‘amazed’ by me, calling me a ‘no-mark’. What’s that exactly? I can only assume that she is referring to my wrinkle-free complexion, something I am rather pleased about. She goes on to insist that she cannot believe how I managed to string out my observations about French women into one book, let alone two.

It was around here that I got confused. I know I write books with more regularity than most people have their eye-brows plucked, but can I really have missed one? What is this second book about French women?

It was then I twigged: Ms Williams is referring to the US edition of Two Lipsticks and a Lover, called All you need to be Impossibly French. How unfortunate. It is one thing writing a vehement attack on someone, but to get such a basic fact wrong is rather, well, sloppy.

Ms Williams has every right to refuse to take care of herself (as she so proudly states that she does) but she should really take more care in her research. Moreover, she is guilty of missing the point of my one book about Frenchwomen. It is not that I think that Frenchwomen are a superior race, nor do I think that English women should be condemned for not looking good. However, I do think that one can both look good and be intelligent; it is these two qualities that one should strive for. I said in the book that I thought that English women had a stronger sense of sisterhood and I would always rather go out with a group of them than a group of French women.

If Ms Williams had bothered to read one of the books - rather than thinking they were two separate books - she would have learnt this. But maybe she was too busy stroking her goatee to care!

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I take it all back. The Parisian publicist is a genius. What do I see in this week’s issue of Paris Match? A whole page about moi and my book. (Click here to view the article.).

As luck would have it, I had subscribed to Paris Match on the instructions of said genius publicist. So now I am famous among Paris Match readers which as far as I can make out is most of the French population. Along with Graham in Switzerland who wrote to me complaining that the cartoonist’s byline was the biggest thing on the page.

I was amazed last night when we went to a Beziers wine-bar to celebrate our great friend Simon’s birthday that I wasn’t mobbed by crowds of fans. I even brought my special pink pen for autographs with me.

I can only assume it’s because there was no photo of me in the article. I am sure this will all change next week when I am on the front cover of Vogue.

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

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

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