I have been struck down with a horrible flu. I must have sneezed around 700 times during the last two days. I dread to think how many brain-cells I have killed. All around the house there are bins filled with tissues. My head hurts, my body hurts, my nose is as red as a traffic light (not a good look) and I feel miserable.

I once killed a cold in its early stages by drinking a bottle of red wine and then taking to my bed. As a cure it beats Lemsip and garlic cloves. One theory is that alcohol dries you up, so at least your nose stops running. Despite my efforts over the last two nights to drink as much red wine as I can the cold is still here, lingering and victorious. I hate it.

I have just sent off the proposal for my next book which is all about happiness. One of the theories I put forward is that we should count our blessings when we’re not ill and be jolly happy to be healthy.

Well, I will certainly try to follow my own advice, once this damn flu clutters off. You’d think it might have given me Valentine’s Day off. How can I possibly kiss my husband (who is looking after me very well) when I can’t breathe through my nose?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have just had my first meeting in French. It was a lunch in an Italian restaurant in St Germain with the French publisher of Two Lipsticks and a Lover and the hottest publicist in Paris, hired by the publisher to promote the book.

I was of course terrified. First of all what do you wear to a meeting with two Parisian women? Then there was the question of if I could make myself understood in French or if they would laugh at my pronunciation and non-existant grammar.

My publisher, called Karine, was sweet as you like. Young, pretty, kind, charming, attentive. The publicist was just like one of those perfect French women I write about in the book. She was thin, elegant, dressed in black with perfect red lipstick. I suddenly felt dowdy, although she was kind enough to notice that my top was Emporio Armani (handed down from my aunt in the days when she used to speak to me) and told me I was “tres elegante“.

This did put me at ease to a certain extent, but did not detract from the fact that she was scarily reminiscent of Meryl Streep in The Devil wears Prada. I am sure she is the hottest publicist in Paris, who would dare to say no to her? Not me, that’s for sure. I expected her to say “that’s all” at any moment and dismiss me.

So here I am on the train bound for home with Elle, Marie-Claire, Liberation and Le Monde to read. And I have promised to speak French to my children.

“If you can’t express yourself in March when the book comes out it will be a catastrophe,” she told me.

The reading list I can cope with, but can you imagine the derison from my children as I tell them to pick up their toys or do their homework in French? They will be able to disobey me constantly, telling me they didn’t understand what I was saying. So no change there.

After my good cop, bad cop encounter I had a photo session. I stood on busy Parisian shopping streets, craning my neck to see what bargains I was missing out on, as a photographer took pictures of me for the book jacket. So another fantasy (that of being a model) has become reality - not a bad start to the year.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Rupert and I have just been to Albi, covering a murder trial. I won’t go into all the details here as am about to collapse after two days hard work but what it taught me is how much fun old-fashioned reporting can be.

I started off thinking the man was guilty, mainly based on newspaper stories I found on the internet. The fact that he looks like a sinister character from a Dickens novel doesn’t help either.

I spoke to the dead wife’s best friend, a charming lady, and was even more convinced of the rotter’s guilt. Then I met more people and heard their side of the story. Then I went to the lake where her body was found, and her house and suddenly it was no longer that easy. Neither Rupert nor I could understand how she could have ended up in that lake unaided.

Finally we met her neighbour. He was terrifying to start with. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. I could tell he was a hunting man by his cars and dogs and was slightly worried we might end up dead too. He huffed and puffed and then said: “If he did kill her he deserves a medal.” Then talked some more and eventually invited us in for coffee. It was one of those classic situations where just doing nothing gets you what you want.

My point is this. Nowadays it’s so easy as a journalist to rely on the internet. We all knock out stories without moving from our desks. But this was the real thing. We were Woodward and Bernstein in full flow. I felt like a proper journalist. One day a film will be made about us starring Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

It was all so exciting. Following the trail of the dead woman, talking to the people who loved and knew her. Discovering another side to her that was not revealed in court. And trying to work out how she ended up in that lake.

The article comes out in this week’s Sunday Times. I think we might write a book about the whole affair. An ‘In Cold Blood’ based in France profonde. Then maybe I can come out with Truman Capote’s immortal line: “When I think about how good this book is going to be I can hardly breathe.”

Even if I can’t, we might at least solve the mystery of the Lady in the Lake.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am not a big fan of reality TV shows, but as this one involves dinner cooked by a three-star Michelin chef and his two remaining celebrities, I am going.

I doubt very much I will even get on camera, unless of course I dare to complain about the food or trip over on my way to my table.
The logistics of getting to and from my table has been worrying me. Especially as I will be wearing high heels. It would be excruciating to fall flat on my face but possibly good publicity for the paperback of Ciao Bella which I am going to London to launch.
My dinner date at Hell’s Kitchen is Mary, who lives down the road from me in France. She and I have been planning outfits for the past three months and I think we’ve just about got them sorted. Mary is particularly pleased with her leopard-print high-heeled shoes, though quite how we’re going to get Hell’s Kitchen presenter Angus Deayton to notice them and share their splendour with the nation I’m not sure.

I will keep you posted on our progress.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am happily installed in the Hotel Alla Noce in Limone, a town on Lake Garda. I am here to finish my next book and have chosen this place due to a gene they have that means they live longer. Apparently ten per cent of the population is between 100 and 110 years old.

So far I have seen no old people or evidence of longevity. What they seem to have though is a control freak gene. Staying at the hotel is a little like boarding school. You can’t eat here, you can’t put your feet there, you can’t sit at that table, you can only eat breakfast inside and so on. Maybe it is their control freak nature that keeps them young, in which case I am going to live to 150.

Good news from a reader in England. She was recently divorced but has found a new man, in part thanks to one of my books. “I think Two Lipsticks & A Lover helped me snare him actually,” she writes. They are now going to move, with her young daughter, to Provence where they will spend the winters; I assume investigating her matching underwear.

It was lovely to get such a nice letter. The past week I have had a lot of hate mail due to the latest Sunday Times column. Even from someone called Reginald. Actually the bitterness of his letter was offset by the joy I felt at the fact that there still are people called Reginald alive and kicking. Maybe he has the famous Limone gene?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

My laptop and I have been reunited and are on our way to Lake Garda where we are going to spend a week finishing To Hell in High Heels. I have left Rupert alone with five children. It was six, but one of them went back home today, so he really has nothing to complain about.

It’s a shame he can’t take them all the stay with my friends Norrie and Mary in the Savoie where I took Bea and Leo last week. They have the perfect recipe for a successful summer with children. I am going to reveal it to you.

One large wooden train decorated with flags
One donkey (possibly the most essential ingredient)
Three dogs
Lots of chickens (preferably two breeds)
Lots of ducks
One pond
Some sheep
Countless rabbits in hutches willing to be stroked and stared at
A box full of old toy cars
Fields all around with cows in them
A skinny cat that pops in from next door
Endless patience and interest in children.

It was the first time I had ever stayed anywhere and heard someone say to my children “when you wake up, don’t go bothering mum, come and see us and we’ll give you flying biscuits and milk”.

Are these people too good to be true? No, it gets better. “How can I help?” I asked one evening. “By lying on a sun-lounger,” came the reply. Then a glass of chilled white wine magically appeared. Bea must have seen the look on my face as she skipped past clutching some poor animal.

“Thank you Norrie,” she said. “You’ve saved my mummy’s life.”

For those of you who don’t have a Norrie or Mary, a friend of mine called Tina Richards (who is a holistic dermatologist) is running two workshops in London in August where you can learn all about the best anti-ageing strategies for your skin. You can check her out at www.holdbacktime.com or email team@holdbacktime.com.

I don’t think Rupert will like that idea much, but maybe when I get home I will send him to Norrie’s for a few days to recover. That way by September he may be speaking to me again.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Lying in Ian Fleming’s bed at 4 am unable to sleep I started to wonder what he would think of our visit to his home…..

“Some rum types at Goldeneye. The man is there to write about a new property development there, plan is to build and sell houses I gather. The woman, too scrawny for me, is writing a book about ageing. Can you imagine anything less thrilling? And at my desk. She spends most of the day there tapping away.

Still the old place looks good and I suppose it’s nice to have a writer at my desk again, even if she’s a woman. Noel would not be amused.”

Whatever Messrs Fleming and Coward would have thought I have loved writing at his desk and reading words he wrote there. As I read Dr No I can almost hear him tapping out the words at his gold-plated typewriter, looking forward to drinks time.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Never mind the vinaigrette, last night I felt totally overcome with an overwhelming and heavy sense of responsibility. I looked around the table at my three children. They were all happily eating, arguing over who should have laid out the napkins and whether Jesus had created my hair (actually he didn’t, Rodolfo Valentin did).

Suddenly I thought; “Help, their whole happiness, health and lives are in my hands.”

I think in part I am feeling like this because next week I go away. I have one more luxury spa to visit in the Caribbean (it’s such a tough assignment) and am going to spend the week being pampered and also finishing the book which I said I would get to my agent by the end of April.

Most sane people would be busy packing their bikinis, waxing their legs and shouting ‘yippee’ at the thought of a week in the Caribbean. Not me. As I walked into my son’s room this morning and smelled his yummy, gorgeous smell my only thought was “I can’t live without this for a week”.

But of course I can, and I will, and the children will be fine with ‘Mami’ Chantal and ‘Papi’ Gilbert who spoil them and adore them and do all the things with them I will never do like go to McDonalds, drink Coca-Cola and watch Spiderman in French.

I know from past experience that once I get on that plane and start thinking about the book my angst diminishes, but that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with now.

My husband meanwhile is in Delhi, hanging out with my best friend. He helpfully emailed me this morning to tell me she “has not one wrinkle and looks great”. So is the answer to staying young living in India, surrounded by younger men (she works on an Indian version of a FHM-style Mag) and not having three children? If so, it’s too late for me.

I’ll just have to accept my wrinkles and go and smell my son’s pyjamas.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

It was the Duke of Wellington who said: “Publish and be damned.” He was responding to a blackmail threat from Harriette Wilson, the famous courtesan, who was about to publish her memoirs which included details of her lovers.

An article of mine is due to appear in tomorrow’s You Magazine about how my aunt is refusing to speak to me since she read my memoir, Ciao Bella (see publish and be damned blog).

I have tried reconciliation. I wrote her a groveling letter to which I’ve had no response. My father even went to Rome to try to make the peace but got nowhere.

“If you insist on talking about it I shall leave the restaurant,” she said. He tells me she is considering legal action.

It’s not like I used to speak to my aunt every day, or see her very often. But ever since it happened I have had this horrible feeling inside that I get if I think someone doesn’t like me. I used to have it a lot when I was a little girl. I was always so desperate to please and be loved that I was incredibly polite and nice; I would do anything to avoid that feeling of non-approval.

I remember when I was about eight years old in the village we lived there were two girls who had been best friends before I arrived called Alison and Penny. The dynamics were so that we couldn’t all be friends together for some reason. I had to choose between the two. But I was so desperate not to upset either of them I would pretend to be friends with both and often get caught out. It was like having an affair.

I now get that same feeling it if I get a nasty letter about one of my articles or someone posts a dreadful Amazon review of one of my books; although working for the British press I have developed a slightly tougher skin than I had as a little girl.

And of course I don’t go around worrying about my aunt all day long; I have other things to worry about like my hair extensions and what to wear to my book signing this afternoon.

But if I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s often the first thing I think about and I feel just like a little girl longing for approval again.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Those of you who have read my memoir Ciao Bella may recall that when I was 14 my father made an unusual bet with me. He bet me that a young man sitting at a table next to us in St Mark’s Square in Venice was American. I thought he looked Italian.

“If he’s Italian I’ll take you shopping all day tomorrow,” said my father. “If he’s American, you have to lose your virginity to him.”

Before I could protest my father had engaged the tall, dark, handsome stranger in conversation. He was, of course, American. I didn’t lose my virginity to him, but I wish I had. Years later I saw recognised him in a film, his name is Peter Gallagher and he has starred in lots of films including Sex, Lies and Videotape and While you Were Sleeping.

When I come back to the hotel this evening I notice the foyer is full of people in glittering ball-gowns and tuxedoes. Being an investigative hackette I thrust my way into the crowd and start asking questions. A lady dressed in something gold and shiny tells me there is a celebrity performance of Guys and Dolls in aid of the Alzheimer’s Association of California Southland.

“Who are the celebrities?” I ask.

“I think they’re from Grey’s Anatomy,” she replies.

On hearing this I immediately push my way to the front of the press desk, thrust my card in the press officer’s hand and ask if I can meet Dr McDreamy. Just imagine how excited the girls will be when I tell them. I can even ask him if he loves Meredith or his dreary wife. Actually forget the girls, how excited will I be? Will I have time to get changed beforehand?

“Who?” says the press officer.

“Dr McDreamy, you know, from Grey’s Anatomy.”

“That was last year,” he smiles. “This year it’s the cast from Rescue Me and Peter Gallagher will be presented with a special award for his work in support of the association.”

So no Dr McDreamy, but Mr McVirginityBet. I briefly wonder if I should try to meet him. Of course there’s no way he’ll remember me, with or without Alzheimer’s, but it would be fun to see him. The press officer gets distracted by someone else and so I walk towards the lift. Yet another missed night with Peter Gallagher. Maybe it will be third time lucky.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007