I am in Austria at the Viva Mayr clinic and online again after several days. I am here for my new book deal; I am writing a diet book based on the Viva Mayr philosophy, which is all about chewing a lot and not eating too late. Well, there is more to it than that of course, but as I only just arrived you can’t expect too many details. And anyway, I don’t want to put you off buying the book.

London was good practice for Abu Dhabi. It was unbearably hot and full of people from the Middle East. We stayed near Marble Arch at our Society of Authors affiliated club, The New Cavendish Club. Let’s get this straight, there’s nothing ‘new’ about it. And that’s what makes it so charming and so very English.

“This is a proper Englishman’s breakfast,” said Olivia tucking into bacon, baked beans, tea and toast. “Grandpa would like this. He’s a proper Englishman. He fought in the war and he won it.”

I doubt the club has changed much since the war (hence the lack of internet connection). The ‘public areas’ require a certain dress code, copies of The Daily Telegraph are strewn over lavishly upholstered sofas and fish and chips is on the bar menu. It is a little corner of London that remains forever England.

Step outside though and you may as well be in down town Abu Dhabi. I would say at least 50% of the people walking down the street are Middle Eastern, quite amazing. Why are they all there? What is it they like about it so much? If you walk through Hyde Park to Kensington Park Gardens and up to the Diana memorial playground the average increases to around 70%. Here at least I can see what has attracted them; the sand around the pirate ship makes them feel at home.

Anyway I am pleased to report they seem extremely nice and I am looking forward to moving there next week even more. Bea met a charming and beautiful young boy at the playground who clearly fell in love with her on sight. Olivia spent her time asking young girls if they liked wearing head scarves. They don’t really think about it is the impression she got.

I saw some very elegant ladies in traditional dress with just a touch of frivolity; a pair of pink shoes, or a Prada handbag, or some gold lace lining the austere black garb. It seems under all that cloth they are a bit like us.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We are in London, it’s great to be back. Yesterday I visited my favourite haunts; the Blink Bar at Harvey Nichols and HB Health where Botox Brenda worked her magic needle. On the way back to the hotel (Rupert has managed to get us into The Connaught, a more civilised place is hard to imagine, Leo has his own bed, dressing gown, slippers, teddy bear, London map etc) I was walking up Park Lane feeling jolly happy when I saw a familiar figure walking towards me.

It was David Cameron, the leader of the opposition conservative party. I have always rather liked Dishy Dave as I call him because he’s, well, quite dishy. He is an Old Etonian which is a good start (in my experience they are usually charming, clever and amusing) and he just looks so good compared with the Prime Minister Gordon Brown. This week Brown compared himself with my all-time hero (only downside is he’s not an Old Etonian) Heathcliff. Well, I mean, really. He is about as reminiscent of Heathcliff as a sack of old potatoes, in fact less.

Dishy Dave looked so bright, handsome and fresh faced that I smiled broadly, praying silently that the blood left by Brenda’s needle had left my forehead. He smiled back and said “hello”. Rather annoyingly when I said hello back my new Tom Ford glasses decided to do that trick of moving up and down on my face so I must have looked like a mad woman. Still at least he’ll remember me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I admit it, I am a fattist. Every time I see a fat person I want to throw up. I can’t stand the sight of that blubber blubbering around. If I see a fat person walking into Burger King I am tempted to make a citizen’s arrest.

Now I see that Britain is officially the fattest nation in Europe with a shocking 59% of women judged overweight or obese. This is more than half the female population. What the hell are they thinking about? Chips and deep-fried Mars Bars? Obviously not their health or how to look good in skinny jeans.

OK, so I may care more than the average person about the way people look. But It’s not just the fact that I hate the idea of someone with so little will-power or care for themselves that they let themselves get into that state. There is the deadly serious side to obesity.

Do you know that being overweight knocks NINE YEARS off a person’s life? And how much is the medical care going to cost? And who pays for that?
We don’t mind looking after smokers on the NHS, after all they fund a large part of it, but how are you going to feel when you realise that a vast amount of your hard-earned money is going on treating people for this obesity epidemic? Reinforced beds don’t come cheap. Nor does the medical care to treat cardiovascular diseases, cancer, diabetes, arthritis and a whole host of other effects of stuffing your face at every given opportunity. And before you all start writing telling me for most fat people it’s a medical condition, I sat next to two extremely experienced doctors at lunch yesterday and asked them how many people were fat due to a medical condtion. The both shook their heads.

“Hardly any at all,” said one, “the most common medical condition would be a mental disorder that leads to over-eating. Other than that it’s simply life-style. And eating too much.”

But being obese is no longer a personal lifestyle choice, it’s an issue we’re all going to have to deal with. And look at. And while I’m ranting; a friend of mine used to extremely thin, not through any eating disorder, she was just thin. People would often come up to her (even strangers in the street) and ask “do you ever eat?” How come you’re allowed to ask that of thin people but were you to ask a fat person if they ever stopped eating you would be judged incredibly rude?

Maybe it’s time we started asking them that question, it might make them stop and think before they stuff in that deep-fried Mars Bar.

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.

After a lovely trip on the Eurostar (now my number one way to travel anywhere due to the opening of not one, but TWO, Marks & Spencer’s at St Pancras International, I am on the TGV speeding towards home.

I am desperate to see the children, Rupert, my dog etc but I have to admit that something approaching depression hit me as soon as I walked off the train and into Lille Station.
Suddenly all the signs were in French, people were speaking French and it all seemed horribly unfamiliar. Obviously after almost eight years of living in France it is familiar, but the fact is it is not home.

But if I am going to get over this depression I have to change my mind-set. When I go to England I stay in Chelsea (somewhere we would never be able to afford to live), I am able to be supremely selfish (I have no children in tow) and I spend most of my time shopping, applying fake tan, having my eyebrows threaded, seeing friends or painting my nails. This is not life. This is a holiday. So from now on, France is going to be home and England my number one holiday destination.

I am going to make an effort to feel more French by listing things I like about living here.

The weather
The countryside
The girls’ ballet school
The straight, empty roads
The TGV
The fresh food
The sense of civic pride
The view from our house
Our house and garden (especially fig trees)
The vineyard at the end of our road with a cross in the corner
Our almond orchard
My new beauty column in Sante Magazine
The lack of people falling over drunk in the street (yes, even in Chelsea)
The lack of women showing less clothes than flesh
The fact that they stop for lunch

And talking of lunch, it is now at least 15 minutes past the allotted eating hour of midday so I need to get my picnic out (from M&S of course, where else? I’m not completely French yet).

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

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

It was the Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said that ‘no man can step into the same river twice, for fresh waters are ever flowing in upon you’. I had hoped that when Carla showed up for the state visit to England that she might have brought a bit of fresh water with her.

Sadly not. One commentator observed that she looked like a mixture betweeb Jackie Kennedy and a nun. I am all for Jackie Kennedy. Style icons like her are to be adored and admired. But the fact is that our dear tutti fruity Carla is about as far removed from her as she is to a nun, and yet she is trying to be her. Heraclitus would not approve.

I can see that for her this was a safe option. Show up looking demure and like Jackie - that’s what people expect from a First Lady. They do indeed. Unless that particular First Lady has a reputation for sleeping with rock stars and conducting interviews topless (I promise you, she did, I read the article, the (male) journalist had to keep trying not to look at her tits and bury his head in his notebook).

What I was hoping from tutti fruity Carla was something with a little flair, a touch of the frivolous, the fun, the daring. Why show up looking like a frigid matron when the whole world knows you’re anything but?

Who knows, she could have created a style all her own, that future first ladies and women all over the world would have emulated.

And another thing. How long before she realises that going on tour with Mick was much more fun than state visits to drafty old castles?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have had one of those days when nothing goes right. I go to grab something and break a nail (newly manicured I might add, I painted them last night before I fell asleep with the new Laura Mercier colour), I go to use a stapler and there are no staples in it, I go to get a towel down from the towel rail and the whole bloody lot fall on my head, I have NO work, my work phone rings and I think ‘yippee, it’s the Daily Mail’. It is not, it’s some man trying to sell me frozen foods. In French. Olivia’s CD player breaks and she says she will never be able to sleep without music.

This is where things start improving. We find Rupert’s old stereo, on which only the tape deck works. So then I have to dig out old tapes. Oh JOY - what do I find? The Bangles and Wham! So we spent a happy hour dancing and singing to songs I haven’t heard for at least 20 years.

It is a little known fact that Andrew Ridgley (from Wham!) was once very keen on me. I remember several nights at the Camden Palace when he and George Michael sidled up to me and I was informed by George that Andrew fancied me. Sadly this was all before they were famous. “The wallies from Wham!” we used to call them. We all thought we were much cooler and more talented than them. And would be more famous. Besides, he was far too thin for me.

Anyway, after the dancing Olivia and I had an even more exciting experience. A friend (God bless him) pirated the fourth series of Grey’s Anatomy from the Internet for us. So we watched episodes one and two. I can’t tell you how brilliant it was. Much better than Wham! and certainly better than working.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Last night I watched the Brit Awards. For those of you who don’t know what they are, they are the British music industry’s equivalent of a Grammy or an Oscar. The show was presented by the Osbourne family who shot to fame on a US reality TV show. They looked like the Adams family and behaved like yobs.

It was led by the matriarch, Sharon. Every other word was “pissed” or “piss off”. Her behaviour would have got me expelled from school but here she was on live TV, being paid thousands no doubt, to screech like a fish-wife and show off her limited vocabulary. She made the so-called really bad girl of rock, Amy Winehouse, look angelic.

Someone should tell Mrs Osbourne that there is nothing amusing about a fifty-something woman dressed in a curtain swearing and flirting with a series of drunk men whom I had never heard of.

I sat and cringed for the two hours of the show. All I could think was, ‘what will the rest of the world think of us?’ Is this really the best person we have for the job? Her daughter showed more decorum but was about as elegant as a squashed snail. As for Ozzy himself, I don’t even want to go there. The son had the sense to keep quiet.

The rare highlights when Mrs Osbourne shut her foul mouth were Amy (a little wobbly but what a voice), Mika (cute as anything and extremely polite) and of course Take That, which was the main reason I was watching. They were lovely, and briefly restored my pride in the British, if not the British music industry.

Meanwhile there has been an alleged sighting of Madeleine close to us, at a service station near Montpellier. A Dutch student claims to have seen the little girl and says she reacted when she called her name. I really want to believe she is still alive, I had given up all hope, reluctantly taking down the picture of her from my blog. But if anyone else should spot a little girl they think is her, for heaven’s sake just grab her and call the police immediately - no one will hold it against you.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

This afternoon I was on Radio BBC Southern Counties (what?! How could you miss it?) talking about a new Mr Man character. He is called Mr Rude and he encourages children to pull his finger and then he farts. Apparently he does all this in a French accent.

Call me old-fashioned, but isn’t this just a tad low-rent? And while we’re on the subject, last night I saw the most disgusting television ad I have ever seen. I won’t go into too many details but it showed a man on the loo. Bad enough you might think, but it got worse. He realises the loo-paper has run out and looks around him and then at the newspaper he is reading and decided the newspape is too good to use so doesn’t. His expression is disgusting, as is the whole idea of it.

What is this advertisement for? Some low-rent, down-market paper you or I will never have heard of? No, it’s for the football section of The Times. The TIMES for crying out loud? THE TIMES OF LONDON as it has proudly been known since 1803 when its name was changed from The Daily Universal Register.

At the risk of sounding like the legendary ‘disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’, I am just that. Although happily I don’t live in Tunbridge Wells.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008