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

So I barely had time to stroke Max and say woof to Wolfie before we were off again. This time with the children to the Savoie where Rupert is researching an article for The Times. This gave us an excuse to come back to one of my favourite places in the world, our friends Norrie and Mary’s house.

It is a little like a spa retreat for me. I walk in and immediately feel relaxed and looked after. I ask if I can help and they say things like “you can sit down and drink your wine.” Regular readers might remember Norrie and Mary and the flying biscuits? They tell the children that when they hear the cockerel they are not to disturb mummy and daddy but to come into their room for milk and flying biscuits.

The downside to this is before 6am yesterday morning Olivia had woken everyone up on hearing a cockerel who is clearly on Asian time.

Olivia, Rupert and I have headed off to research the lakes. Yesterday it was gloriously sunny. I did some evening yoga (or yogo as Leonardo calls it) on the pontoon by the lake, much to the amazement of the locals who were extremely impressed with my pink yoga mat. It was one of those magical moments; the setting sun, the calm lake, the ducks gliding noiselessly back and forth.

Until I heard a voice behind me: “Mummy, we can see your knickers.” I only hope they didn’t clash with my yogo mat.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I went to collect Leo from school today he ran at me, threw his arms around me and started giggling hysterically. As this is something he often does, I didn’t pay any attention. We left school, went to the park, chatted to friends and then came home.

At home I finally realised I had a fish stuck to my back, they call them poisson d’avril here. Seconds later I found a hand-written letter on my desk from the mayor. Rather suspiciously the handwriting looked just like Bea’s.

‘Helena,’ it read. ‘Your work is no good, your books are horrible, if there is not an improvement by the end of the week you will be removed from your work. Signed’ and there was a signature that looked a bit like a jelly-fish in some kind of trouble.

An email arrived from a TV production company specialising in food shows. They have read my blog and love it, it read. Would I like to come and chat to them about appearing on one of their shows. They made such hits as Two Fat Ladies and Gordon Ramsay’s F-word. I have made an appointment but am slightly worried the address will turn out to be fake. And how stupid will I feel standing on a building site wearing my chef’s hat and apron?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Never mind the arrival of the Daily Mail in the region, the big news yesterday was that Louis has a girlfriend. “She’s called Elisa. They even kissed on the lips,” Leo told us when he came home from school. He was more scandalised than my mother was when I showed up at home with dreadlocks. Actually come to think of it, she wasn’t remotely scandalised.

Anyway, Leo was shocked. Disgusted from Tunbridge Wells. Then this evening he came home looking all pleased with himself.

“I kissed Louis’ girlfriend,” he told me happily chomping on a carrot.

“Didn’t he mind?” I asked.

“We was hiding,” he replied, somewhat smugly. This girl spells trouble, at four years old. So does my son.

“Mummy, who will I marry?” Leo asked after a minute or two.

“Who do you want to marry?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Louis’ girlfriend,” he said. “But definitely someone with long hair.”

Talking of marriage - one of the ways they may illustrate the Mail serialisation of the book is to show me ten years ago at our wedding (June 1998) and compare the picture with me now, wearing the same dress. Here is an exclusive sneak preview. The photographer kindly said I could publish it for free with a credit. His name is Ben Lister and his website is www.benlister.com.

When I sent my mother the picture she called to say how amazing it was that I could still get into the same dress ten years on. What most readers of the Mail won’t realise is that the back wasn’t done up.

So the pressing question of the day, apart from who will Leo marry, is when did my rib-cage grow, and why?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Suddenly there is no more time for Grey’s Anatomy or the Wham! revival. The serialisation of To Hell in High Heels may happen as early as next week (after a dramatic bidding war between the Mail and the Sunday Times, as usual the Mail won), I am about to be interviewed on French national radio about French women as Two Lipsticks comes out here on March 17th and Leo thinks he’s a girl called Tinkerbell.

To the France-Inter interview first. This may sound significant but when you know it is going to be broadcast between five and six in the morning on Monday you realise that I am not yet what they call over here a “people”.

The Mail is very exciting - they say they are going to do a photo shoot. This time I am choosing my own dress, the last one they put me in made me look like a catalogue model.

And talking of dresses…..yes, Leo. He was last seen wearing a Cinderella nightie and Pocahontas wig. Rupert kept saying; “Repeat after me. I’m a boy, I’m a boy.” He sounded like Jack Lemmon in Some Like it Hot. To this instruction Leo squealed with delight and said “I’m a girl, I’m a girl.”

I am not too worried. I think it’s extremely healthy to just go with whatever flow happens to work for you at the time. He has spent most of his four-year life being either Spiderman or Peter Pan. This makes an interesting change.

I tried to calm Rupert down. “Fine,” he said, gently removing Leo’s black wig as he slept. “But I’m not going to his wedding.”

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