The Australian Open is on at the moment and every morning I switch on the television to be greeted with images of French players battling it out down under. And every morning I ask the same question: Why are there no British players playing?

There was one, Andy Murray, who was knocked out in the first round. But the French seem to have a never-ending supply. This seems a bit rum, after all we invented the game, didn’t we?

Up to a point. In the 19th century the English invented lawn tennis, but it was based on Real Tennis which had been played in France since the 12th Century. In fact the word tennis comes from the French tenez meaning get it in the context of Real Tennis.

One of the criticisms levelled at the French educational system is that they don’t do enough sport or art. This may be true. But we have Wednesdays off to do all that and on Wednesdays my children all trot off to Pezenas Tennis Club where they have tennis coaching with other children.

The fact is they may not do tennis at school but it is made very easy to do it outside of school and every village, no matter how small, has a tennis court.

I would love to see one of my children represent England in the Australian Open one day and I know where they should be brought up if they’re to stand a chance.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Johnny Depp has given £1 million to Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital for saving his daughter’s life last year. In March 2007 Lily-Rose contracted E-coli poisoning and her kidneys failed. It was touch and go for nine days, but she pulled through.

I have always thought that one of the best things about being really rich must be being able to come up with grand gestures like this one. But Johnny has done even more than give money which, let’s face it, is easy if you have lots of it. He also had his Captain Jack Sparrow costume flown over from LA and spent four hours reading bedtime stories to the hospitalised children.

Disney, which made the Pirates Of The Caribbean films, has donated £10million to Great Ormond Street, which needs to raise £170million in five years to re-develop two-thirds of the hospital site.

I wonder why people spend money helping donkeys (however sweet they are) in Greece and other far-flung places when there are causes like this one to support.

Anyway, hats off to Johnny, I always liked him. Although one might argue that a hospital like Great Ormond Street should not have to rely on the kindness of pirates.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The New Year is traditionally a time for looking forward. But thanks to some old school reports from Shaw House Grammar School for Girls I found at my mother’s house, I have been looking back, all the way back to my teens…..

My English report does not bode well for my writing future. This one is from 1977. Achievement C+ Effort B. Helena is a bright and active member of this group, into which she has settled well. Her written work does not live up to the general impression she otherwise makes.

Rupert says that’s before I had him as an editor.

By 1978 things have improved slightly. Achievement A (no mark for effort). Helena shows a lively interest in English. She takes an active part in class work and enjoys discussion, reading and acting. Her written work is imaginative and mature.

The headmistress’s comment from 1977 perhaps has more in common with the present than I will admit.

Although Helena is a very mature girl in many ways, she is inclined to fuss and bother over minor matters. She seems to want to organise everyone about her, but I think she will soon find that other people are not always willing to be organised! If Helena would concern herself a little more with Helena alone, I am sure things would improve!

I don’t like people who end critical little sentences with punctuation marks. It’s almost as if they don’t really mean what they’re saying. Or they’re too scared to really stand behind what they’re saying.

When I read that out to Rupert he said it sounded like an exact description of Olivia and me. So the past is always part of the future.

Happy New/Old Year.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

With his famous book, the Age of Reason, published in 1795 Thomas Paine confirmed a new age; the age of enlightenment. If Thomas Paine were to write a book today he would probably call it The Age of Stupidity.

In it he would chart the relentless rise of reality TV, talk about hoodies taking over the streets of Britain and the celebrity culture that has gripped the inhabitants of this once proud and intelligent island.

I don’t know when it finally dawned on me that we have entered an age of stupidity - maybe I was a bit dim not to work it out sooner - but a number of cumulating factors have led me to this conclusion. Take this example. What do you suppose is Britain’s best-selling autobiography? Ghandi’s perhaps? Or Winston Churchill’s account of how he saved Britain - and the world - from Nazism? Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom? Wrong. It is the account of how a woman tripled her breast size and thus endeared herself to a nation. Yes, Jordan’s is the fastest-selling autobiography in British publishing history.

Being Jordan and Jordan: A Whole New World have sold almost 1.2 million copies in the UK over the past five years. Churchill’s has sold just over 5,000. I looked at one of her autobiographies in a book shop once, just to see what all the fuss was about. I no longer remember which one, but it all started with a cat-fight and the unforgettable line, er actually I’ve forgotten, but it was something along the lines of ‘don’t you come creeping up to me you bitch, I know what the f*** you’ve been saying behind my back.’

Truly gripping stuff. I see her novel is in the best-seller list too.

So I am now faced with a dilemma. When I was in London last I had a life-changing moment. A publisher approached me at a party and said; “I think you should write a novel.” This to me was the equivalent of someone telling the England rugby team they are going to beat France on Saturday. Ever since I was little girl I have wanted to (and tried to) write novels. So once I have sent off the edited To Hell in High Heels on Monday, I will begin to realise this life-long ambition.

The dilemma is, do I write something I want to write or something I think will sell in this Age of Stupidity? Am I prepared to dumb down? No is the answer of course. But I shall probably remain a penniless writer while Jordan sips pink champagne before breakfast and has her numerous pools cleaned by Jonny Wilkinson look-alikes.

Perhaps I am the one being truly stupid, retaining a normal breast-size and trying to write relatively good books?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Olivia and I have been listening to a CD of African music. One of the songs begins with a quote from Nelson Mandela. “I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if it needs be it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die,” he says.
Yesterday was the unveiling of a statue of the great man himself in London’s Parliament Square. I was thrilled to be able to show him to Olivia, who has found the concept of dying for an ideal a little hard to understand, as well as the 27 years he spent in prison. “27 years?” she exclaimed. “That’s more than my life. No, that’s much older than me. I wouldn’t want that thank you very much.”

What struck me as I watched the news coverage of Nelson and other “dignitaries” including Gordon Brown and Red Ken was just how dignified he is and how undignified they are. This is a man who really was willing to die for his principles and who sacrificed 27 years of his life in prison for them. And it shows in his face and comportment. I can’t imagine our politicians today sacrificing a weekend for much, although Gordon Brown did very generously cut short his summer holiday in Dorset this year to deal with a national security alert. I suspect he was secretly relieved to get out of the rain and back to town.

I am on my way to London now and hope to see the new statue. Maybe it will inspire future generations of politicians as they walk past it. Let’s hope so, we need more Nelsons.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I once read somewhere that when children start killing children it is the end of the world. In Liverpool last week an 11-year-old-boy was gunned down as he played in a park, apparently by a 13-year-old youth.

When I was in England last week it seemed that every day someone was murdered for standing up to yobs. One day it was a talented student who reprimanded some yob for throwing litter. Another day it was a man trying to protect his car. A columnist in the Daily Mail described how his whole street is scared to go out after 9pm because of the yobs who hang out in the park opposite their house. Daily Mail hacks are not easily scared, it must be bad.

How has this happened? Perhaps our armed forces should be brought back from Iraq and Afghanistan to restore order and civility to our streets? It seems the police are powerless. When my father-in-law was the victim of yob-like behaviour recently the only thing they were interested in was how old he is. They simply couldn’t have cared less about the crime itself.

On a lighter note I am pleased to report that my children are showing true feminist instincts. Last night we were watching Mean Girls with Lindsay Lohan. She is in love with what she calls a “hot boy” and pretends to be bad at maths so he can help her. In truth she is better at maths than him.

“I wouldn’t pretend to be stupid for some hot boy,” said Olivia. “I would just find another one.”

“So would I,” said Bea.

“Me too,” said Leonardo. Bless him.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

My mother has lived in Devon for almost twenty years but moves to Italy in September. I am sad not to have a reason to come here any more. Despite the dreadful weather (the sun has been out for a total of seven minutes during the last four days which I believe is a record for August, normally it just rains non-stop) I love it here.

I love the countryside, the people, the sheeps (as the children call them), the cows and the fact that everything is so green. I love the little winding roads, the mossy woods, the small streams and the hedgerows.

One of the best things about the trip has been walking around the lanes with the children. Leo has become addicted to blackberries and there is nothing quite as romantic for a girl brought up in England as the sight of her blond son stuffing blackberries in his mouth. On a par with the blueberries in Sweden. What is it with me and dark-coloured berries?

The other evening, when the sun was briefly visible, we lay in a field on our plastic macs and gazed at the view. There were green rolling hills and three large oak trees in a field that looked as if they’d been there for hundreds of years and probably will for hundreds of years to come.

As I drove back from my daily trip to M&S this morning I realised that this would probably be the last time I ever do that drive which made me very sad. Unless of course the Tiverton Film Festival becomes a reality and they make Ciao Bella into a film which has its premiere here. I wonder which is more likely?

My mother had a leaving party last night. It was a great do with lots of food, music and good friends. Leo summed it up so well as we fell into bed around midnight. “They were so nice, the peoples,” he said. I think my mother will miss them, but maybe some of them will find their way to Umbria to visit.

Meanwhile my friendly spy has revealed what Heathcliff thought of me after seeing me again twenty years on. He thinks I am a very nice person (don’t you just hate that?) but he doesn’t fancy me. The reason? “She’s too thin.” I like him more than ever.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

When I was a little girl, my mother and I lived in a small village close to Uppsala in Sweden. Our flat was above a cinema called the Red Mill. I went to every film that was shown (even if they were 18s, no one seemed to mind). It was there I saw unforgettables like The Omen (I am still terrified of black labradors) and Grease. My mother was less enthusiastic. Even now if someone asks her if she’s seen a film she often replies; “No, but I’ve heard it.”

So maybe I have a particlularly romantic attachment to cinemas. But I am heartbroken to hear that the Tiverton Tivoli is going to close. Last night we went there to see Shrek The Third. The Tivoli is what I call a proper cinema where you get proper popcorn (ie not in bags or doused with toffee) and the same person who sells you the tickets comes in with a tray of ice-creams after the ads as the words INTERMISSION flash up in old-fashioned writing on the big screen.

The children love it. “This is the best cimena,” they all agreed. For some reason cinema is a word they cannot pronounce.

They have been showing films at the Tiverton Tivoli since 1932. Now of course the land is so valuable the owners would make much more money selling it for housing. In nine days’ time the lease expires and I fear the cimena is doomed.

There is some hope that an independent cinema chain will step in, but not much. This is just the kind of thing I would step in and save if I were a multi-millionaire. Maybe you could even create a Tiverton Film Festival. Now there’s a thought. Forget Cannes and Venice, Tiverton is where it’s at.

Anyone interested in helping please visit www.savethetivoli.co.uk

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

One of my favourite films ever is Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It is the only reason Olivia was originally named Holly. Once we moved to France we changed her name. In fact I had doubts straight after the initial euphoria of the birth. And in French Holly sounds like an invitation to go to bed.

One of the things I love about Breakfast at Tiffany’s is the feeling Holly Golightly has when she is in the shop. “Nothing bad can ever happen to you at Tiffany’s,” she says. Yesterday I too experienced that feeling, at Marks & Spencer in Bath.

I realise that in terms of glamour it’s not really right up there. But for some reason as soon as I walk into an M&S I feel calm and secure. The one in Bath is marvellous. Where else can you find blueberries, mixed seeds, pink underwear, over-sized rag dolls and goose-down pilows all under the same roof?

I seem to have passed this passion down to my children. Olivia came back from a trip to the Tiverton the other day raving about “a brilliant shop”. It wasn’t until she showed me the plastic bag that I realised she was talking about my Tiffany’s. Now she talks about little else.

I suppose it must be something to do with growing up in England that makes M&S so special to me. A bit like a grandparent it has always been there; reliable, comforting and reassuringly middle class.

Meanwhile life at my mother’s house is wonderful. I got back from Bath to find all my dirty clothes washed and ironed. It’s rather like living with myself.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

My stepchildren have now been here for four weeks. They are charming, sweet and I love them to bits. But they are also fairly useless around the house. It is only after four weeks that they have finally worked out one end of the dishwasher from the other. Yesterday I tried to teach Julia to iron. After ten minutes she, I and the poor unfortunate shirt lost the will to live.

The fact is that middle-class children in England today do about as much as Victorian children living in the colonies did.

The other day a friend of mine who lives in Sussex told me a story. Her fourteen-year-old daughter, who is at a local fee-paying school, brought a friend home to play. My friend’s husband was moving the lawn. Her daughter said hello to her step-father (like you would) and had a little chat.

“You’re very nice to your gardener,” commented her friend. Obviously one does not mow one’s lawn oneself.

Yesterday my in-laws took Hugo and Julia shopping for gym shoes. “What kind will you get?” Rupert asked Julia. “Tennis or gym or running?”

“Annabel has a different pair for everything,” replied Julia. Rupert asked Hugo why they expected to have a different pair of shoes for each occassion. “We’re middle class,” came the reply.

I can just imagine how hard Annabel’s poor father works to keep his family in trainers and gardeners (and before you call me sexist, being properly middle class her mother doesn’t work of course). As the writer Samuel Smiles said “Middle class people are apt to live up to their incomes, if not beyond them.”

Julia is off to Kenya on Wednesday and her main concern (aside from catching Malaria) is how hot it’s going to be.

“What were we doing aged 13,” I ranted to my husband last night. “Trying to avoid getting bashed and earning a crust washing cars or mucking out stables.”

But as we all know our children will never be impressed by how tough we had it. And nor will theirs be. But I dread to think just how spoiled they will be if the same pattern repeats itself for the next generation.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007