I am hoping I have hit the low point. After yet another night of no sleep, a bean-bag exploding all over Amanda’s flat and no response from my high-powered contact, I was told the ballet class I wanted the girls to go to was full. I did what any normal balletomane would do and burst into tears, then I thought about calling Etihad and arranging flights back to France. But decided against it due to the fact that the ballet class there is probably full as well.

Then a knight in shining armour appeared in my inbox. It’s amazing how emails can change your life. He is involved in property in Abu Dhabi and had read my tale of woe in the Sunday Times. I am not going to say too much about it for fear of jinxing it, but the flat is perfect, the location divine and the rent, although astronomical, totally normal for here.

An hour or so later I had a call. “Madame Helena? This is the Expressions of Dance studio,” said a friendly voice. “Are you still interested in your girls joining the Grade I ballet class. We have two places.”

“Interested?!!!” I leapt so high I hit my head on the roof of the taxi. It turns out one girl had pulled out, the head of the school didn’t want to offer a place to one sister and not the other so asked the ballet teacher if she would, just this once, take eleven girls instead of ten. She agreed. I love her. It seems ridiculous that something like a ballet class can change your whole outlook but it has.

You’ll be pleased to hear that Leo is starting too, on Sunday. His kit has been ordered, white leotard and blue shorts. But he too has hit a low point poor little love. After his first day of school I asked him how it went.

“It’s my worst school ever,” he told me. “I didn’t make any friends and they don’t speak English.”

He is sleeping peacefully as I write. When they all wake up we will take them to the Club where there are activities all day(it’s the weekend here) from Nintendo Wii (whatever that is) to cooking to tennis and bouncy castles. This is an amazing place for children and last night as I watched him and the girls play on the beach I thought that things must get better for him as well just as they have for me. Especially once he discovers ballet…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

“What is the hardest thing in Abu Dhabi?” Olivia asked the other day as she stood by the pool at The Club, tucking into an ice cream.

“My stomach?” suggested Rupert.

“Not having anywhere to live?” I ventured.

“Eating an ice-cream,” said Olivia. “It melts before you can eat it.”

I look forward to her misery memoir.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

During the rugby world cup last year I had an idea for a book called ‘How to seduce Jonny Wilkinson and other routes to happiness’. It was a book looking at what makes women happy, how we can be happier and so on.

Obviously I have no idea how to seduce Jonny Wilkinson (short of dressing up as a rugby ball and hurling myself over some posts) but that was to be what publishers call the “narrative arc”. On my quest to eternal happiness I would set out to achieve what most of the females (and some males) in England wanted to do at the time.

My agent didn’t like it. I mean she liked the idea, but she doesn’t fancy Jonny Wilkinson. So we opted for something that perhaps more women can relate to; pink nail varnish. And this morning I realised how right she was (although the book never did get written, the publisher didn’t like the idea, or pink nail varnish).

I sat on my bed after two weeks of interrupted nights due to the mosque outside my window, around me the children wailed, and fought, and argued and yelled. I reflected on the previous day when I had spent all my time trying to secure a flat that fell through at the last minute. I thought about the day ahead when I would have to find some way of keeping the children from murdering each other and all the horrible admin chores I need to get to grips with but just can’t muster up the energy to begin.

In my hand I had a bottle of pink nail varnish. ‘Violet’ it is called, from M&S since you ask. Slowly I opened the lid and began to paint my nails. The glossy, fuscia pink (more than violet) colour slid onto my toe-nails effortlessly, like a lump of melting butter on a piece of warm toast. I finished one nail and was pleased with the result. The children came and yelled at me.

“Go away please,” I said, Zen-like, without even looking up from my shiny toes. “I am painting my nails.”

Miraculously they did go away. I painted the remaining nails. At the end of it, I felt so much better. And my nails looked so much chirpier than before. Which I guess might be part of the reason why I felt better.

Whatever, I am happy, and I have not even met Jonny Wilkinson.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

My friend Amanda sent me an email with an attachment describing three guinea pigs looking for a home. “Very cute four week old guinea pigs looking for a home,” it reads. “We like to stroll around, squeak all the time for food and we love to cuddle. All we need is a cage, hay, water and pellets.”

I thought I might solve our housing crisis by sending out a similar one for the children. This is how it might read if written by Olivia:

Three very cute and lovely children looking for a home in central Abu Dhabi. Must be a large house, have sea view and be close to the French school so we can come home for snacks should we need to. Would also prefer walking distance to Marina Mall or possibly driver on hand to take us there.

We like to shop. Leo doesn’t much, but that doesn’t matter. We also like to play Nintendo DS games; someone with a library of said games (especially Super Mario) would be preferential. Or in any case enough money to buy them. If you have a spare room for our parents that would be good too, but we’re not really fussed.

We eat almost anything; Bea will try to eat nothing but chocolate cereal, but don’t let her. We must have pasta at least once a week please. We also need a TV with programmes we like such as Hannah Montana. If we have to share a room, then Bea and I could, but could you put Leo in his own room please because he snores. You will like him a lot, everyone does, he is blond and charming. It gets a bit irritating actually.

That’s it. We’re very nice, not that much trouble. Well, Bea is a bit. But you’ll get used to her. Leo is fine as long as he has a ball to play with. And I’m very useful if you ever lose anything as I remember everything. Thanks. Oh can I have a mobile phone please? A pink one. Don’t give one to Bea, she’ll only break it. She just broke mummy’s. Leo wouldn’t know what to do with one because he’s a boy. Please write soon. Mummy is going mad with us all in the hotel and it’s getting boring.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Today I made a most remarkable discovery. To understand just how remarkable we need to go back in time more than thirty years to when I was a little girl and playing with my some conically-shaped weights that belonged to my grandfather. I can’t remember how old I was, possibly seven. I was swinging said weights around in large circles above my head and back down again as fast as I possibly could.

“Don’t do that,” said my mother.

The next minute I had managed to get my thumb caught between them and totally squashed it. It really hurt. I still remember the pain. My mother put my thumb in cold water then hot water. But nothing helped.

As a result of my own stupidity, I have lived with a flat thumb since that day. When I was a teenager I was ashamed of it and would curl it up in my palm, hiding it like a deformity. In later years I have grown used to it. It is actually quite useful. For example I can never remember which is left or which is right, especially in moments of severe stress, like when I am map-reading. “Flat thumb or thin thumb?” shouts Rupert just as we’re about to miss the turning. Flat thumb is right, thin thumb is left.

This morning on our way to the club I noticed to my total and utter amazement that Olivia has a flat thumb - and she has never been stupid enough to squash it. Somehow my flat thumb must have become part of my genetic make-up and as she is identical to me in every aspect, she has inherited it. Incredible. There is just as much difference between her thumbs as mine. And it is her right thumb that is flat, just like mine.

The other two don’t have this genetic quirk. Bea has two flat thumbs, one rather more chewed than the other on account of her constantly sucking it. Leo has very elegant thumbs, like his father.

Was Olivia upset by this discovery? Not a bit of it. “I’m just like you mummy,” she said, giving me an uneven thumbs up.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Today I substituted flat-hunting for the Marina Mall. The children chose their school bags; Olivia went for Pucca, Bea for High School Musical and Leo, you guessed it, Spiderman. We also invested in a portable DVD player which we should have done at the beginning of this trip. Anyway, I feel so much better. Maybe we could just live at the Marina Mall?

I also had a good day in the office. I have my own office email address (very grown up) and I am going to write an article about shopping in Abu Dhabi. It is a tough subject, but I am a determined hackette and have researched it extensively.

On the way to the club this morning Rupert tried to distract the children by asking them to remember the names of my new friend Amanda’s cats.

“Nelson,” shrieked Bea. “One of them is called Nelson.”

“Correct,” said Rupert. “And why is he called Nelson?”

“Because he only has one eye,” said Olivia, who never forgets a fact.

“And who was Nelson?” asked Rupert.

“I know! I know!” yelled Leo. “He was a famous cat.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

This morning as my two girls were fighting over a Nintendo DS game, I was reading a heart-breaking story about Rabab, a little girl aged four and her twin brother who spend their summers working at a brick-making factory in Narwan, southern Iraq. You can see the story here. http://www.thenational.ae/article/20080816/FOREIGN/854404655/1001

These children are younger than Leonardo, but as the journalist points out, Rabab has difficulty “holding a smile”. She has practically lost the will to live. She is destitute, hungry, desperate and will probably spend the rest of her life making bricks. The difference between the lives of my children and Rabab’s is just too distressing to imagine. This girl has no hope that her future will be any better than her present, she has never been to school, her life is unbearably tough and her main battle each day is to find enough water to drink in the searing heat and dust.

So while my children worry about who is playing with the Magic Mario game on a toy that is most certainly worth more than Rabab earns in two years in horrendous conditions, she focuses on not dying of thirst.

Maybe this should make me feel proud, make me happy that I am able to give my children such a nice life. But it doesn’t. It makes me feel like a failure. And like adopting Rabab, along with her entire family.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Jean-Claude Benguigui aged five, Albert Bulka aged four and Paula Mermelstein aged 10 have one thing in common. They were three of 105 Jewish children, rescued by a Polish lady called Sabine Zlatin and bought to a country hideaway high in the hills above Chambery during the war.

Tragically on April 6th 1944 two truckloads of Gestapo soldiers arrived under the orders of Klaus Barbie and rounded up the three mentioned along with 41 other children. “Are you their parents?” they asked the seven adults looking after them. “No, but we will stay with them,” they said. On the journey the children sang defiantly  “You’ll never keep Alsace and Lorraine.” They were all in Auschwitz 10 days later, where they were gassed. Out of the adults one survived but the rest were taken to places as far away as Estonia where they were shot.

Our visit to the beautiful house where these children lived their last happy, tranquil weeks before deportation just outside the village of Izieu was prompted by Bea. She saw a picture of a concentration camp in the museum in Chambery and wanted to know all about the war. We told her as best we could, we drew maps showing how the Germans swept through Europe, explaining that it was a little like her taking over Olivia and Leo’s rooms. Hitler was hard to explain. “Is he more evil than Captain Hook?” asked Leo. “Why did he kill all those people?” asked Bea.

I had heard about the house before and always wanted to visit but never had the courage. Once I had children of my own, anything sad involving any children makes me weep. I did weep. I wept at the little innocent letters written by the children to their parents (who were in camps heaven knows where), to their adored teacher, the wonderful drawings they drew. But it was also an inspirational visit. I was inspired that there are people who will risk their lives for others, who rather than hiding from evil fight it. And I loved the idea that whatever horrific fate awaited the children, they had been rescued from certain death (mainly from the Herault, where we live) and had some weeks of security, peace and loving in the most beautiful surroundings beforehand. And let’s not forget the 60 or so, who thanks to Mme Zlatin, did survive.

We walked up the hill behind the house after our visit, still talking about the war. Bea went to bed reading the Diary of Anne Frank. This topic seems to have gripped her like no other. If you are ever in this region then do visit the Maison d’Izieu. And take your children. I think the house rather enjoys the sound of small feet running around it and laughter.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I had no idea where Abu Dhabi was until Rupert told me he had been offered a job there. He likes to get a proper job once every ten years or so, so he’s off to work on the business desk of a new newspaper called The National (www.thenational.ae).

“I’ll stay here,” I told him, imagining life as a single parent with a little trepidation. No one in their right mind wants sole responsibility for our three children, for every school run, every meal, every bit of shopping, ironing and homework.

Then my agent called me. A client of hers was going out too, to edit the new weekly magazine. Was I interested in working for her as a staff writer?

I decided to do some research into Abu Dhabi. This could be an interesting new slice of cake (see below blog). Here’s what I found out:

It’s hot
There are lots of parks
There are beaches
There are seven-star hotels
There are lots of shops, I mean SERIOUS amounts of shops
Most houses come with maid’s quarters
There are two French schools
The Louvre and the Guggenheim is about to open (good for when the shops are closed)
Dubai is close by
There are camels
There’s not much wine

I decided to join him and so after our European tour we are moving. The children are going to the French school and we are going to work. All very grown up. I will miss my afternoon kips and walks with wolfie but am extremely excited by this new adventure.

The children have taken it really well. Not a word of complaint and they’re really looking forward to it. Olivia did have two questions: “Are they handsome and will we have maids?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “But we’re about to find out.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We are in Cadaques, where normally at this time of year the children would be swimming in the sea and playing on the beach. But it’s raining. Not the sort of rain you can avoid. Sheets of rain that hit you like a bucket of water.

We are here because Rupert has to write a travel story for The Times about the region and more specifically the boat Salvador Dali gave his wife Gala. We need said boat just to get out of the hotel.

Yesterday we went to the Dali museum in Figueres. He was a brilliant artist (technically) but I just don’t like all that weird stuff. I can’t help it. It seems slightly ridiculous, as was his moustache.

After breakfast we are going to see his house. I am looking forward to it. Whatever I think of his art or moustache, he was a fascinating man. We have tried to instill the children with some interest in goings on. They really have none. They seem most fascinated by the hotel bathroom and Spanish TV channels. I suppose that’s just as well, considering the weather.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008