A survey published today concludes that the French are more miserable than ever. In fact they are more miserable now than any time since records began. That’s pretty miserable.
When I moved to France eight years ago with my children I expected them to pick up the spirit of Voltaire, freedom, liberty and equality.

Little did I know that almost by osmosis they would pick up another, more obvious, national trait: the ability to whinge, complain, curse one’s lot and go on strike at every given opportunity.

You might think the average Frenchman has a lot to be chuffed about: the choice of endless sea shores, fabulous skiing, the loveliest city in the world, great food and wine, sunshine and the sexiest First Lady since Jackie Kennedy. Are they happy? Non. They are not. I have never known a nation grumble so much. I can only assume that they are worried that if they smile the tax man will assume they are hiding money and come and investigate them.

Tomorrow I am leaving my grumpy children and going off to renew myself at my new anti-ageing spa retreat. It is May 1st so I will be almost the only person in France “working”. But somehow I can’t see myself grumbling, however tough the downward dog gets…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

In order to break into journalism in England I was forced to become a financial journalist on leaving university. This was not, as you can imagine, my natural environment. I worked for the gripping title ‘Trade Finance Magazine’ which shortly after I joined became ‘Project and Trade Finance Magazine’. You can imagine my relief. I am still unsure of the difference between the two.

Anyway, for ten years I struggled on, despite an inauspicious start. I got back from my first ever meeting to find my editor fielding a call from the person I had interviewed who had called to ask her why she had sent “this bimbo who knows less than nothing about trade finance” to interview him.

Finally I gave up journalism altogether, only to reinvent myself as the Sunday Times French Mistress and lifestyle journalist years later.

I have now broken into French journalism which is extremely exciting. Barring the obvious problem that I am unable to write French I think it will go swimmingly. I am a columnist (which is rather like going straight in at number one) for a magazine called Santé.

My first column is Me and my foot cream. I feel I have finally found my level….

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

Yesterday my book about French women Two Lipsticks and a Lover came out in France. Here it is called So Chic! and they have translated the UK title and made it a sub-title. Some of you may remember the scary meeting I had with the foremost book publicist in Paris who told me if I didn’t improve my French this week of interviews would be a disaster.

I kept my side of the bargain. Every day I called my long-suffering friend Jacques and spoke to him in French for around 15 minutes. My husband had to leave the house while this was going on. “I’m pleased you’re doing it,” he would say, heading for the door. “I just don’t want to hear it.”

I read Elle, Marie-Claire, Paris-Match; I watched French television. Even my neighbour noticed my French has got better. I imagined wafting around Paris this week, my publicity team in tow, gracing various TV channels with interviews and using the subjunctive like normal mortals use the present tense.

I am not at all chuffed to report that rather than Paris I am in my armchair with Max the cat sitting on my keyboard while Olivia (off sick from school) coughs next to me. To cheer myself up I look at amazon.fr to catch a glimpse of my newly-published book. It is very exciting to be published in the same language as Flaubert and Proust. Granted their books were a lot longer and possibly less superficial than mine, although I’m sure if Flaubert had got on to matching underwear he’d have written about it.

On amazon.fr there is no cover image of my book and my rating is far, far worse than To Hell in High Heels on amazon.co.uk which isn’t even published yet.

The French public is clearly not interested in my opinion of French women. Apart from one lone presenter that is who has a show on the radio statrion France Inter called 5/7. He interviewed me for his show and promised me a 10-minute slot. I though the name was rather promising, cinq a sept and all that. Until he told me it in fact goes out between five and seven in the morning.

So good work Madame Publicist - I am big among French lorry drivers…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Some of you may think this blog is just an excuse to get yet another picture of Jonny Wilkinson up. And your problem with that is…?

Last night he proved yet again that he is the greatest living Englishman. The Six Nations match between England and France was as good as it gets. Normally only Grey’s Anatomy can make me forget I am ironing sheets. Last night I could have ironed every duvet cover in the house.

It rather reminded me of the old days with Rob Andrew, Jeremy Guscott and Will Carling. I was at Durham with Carling and he is the reason I started watching rugby in the first place. I remember the excitement when he was picked for England and then became England captain. Back then of course the game was amateur and he had to combine his rugby with his studies and army career.

Football is known as the beautiful game. I think rugby can be extremely beautiful too, especially when the French play their French flair. But last night there was (thankfully) not too much French flair. “More pain-au-chocolat than panache,” said my husband.

But we saw plently of English grit and of course Jonny’s flair. It is hard to define what made the game so exciting but part of it must be that it is a sport where everyone gives their all, that is fiercely masculine and also challenging. On the rare ocassions a try is scored, it really is an event.

So I fell asleep happy; Swing Low Sweet Chariot ringing in my ears. But all the way through the match I was convinced France would win. Which just goes to show that live sport is one of the few unpredictable things left in our sanitised and ordered world. And thankfully Jonny remains predictably brilliant.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I was on a yoga mat in my M&S pink polka-dot underwear when the police arrived. I am genetically pre-disposed to panic as soon as I see a policeman. I spent my childhood watching my mother shout ‘help’ every time one came anywhere near us, even if he was just innocently arresting someone else.

But these policemen were at my door in full uniform and carrying guns. Things did not look promising.

“Is zis your dog?” asked one of them, although not of course in an Inspector Clouseau accent, because he was speaking French. But you get the idea. “E ‘as murdered a lamb.”

“Wolfie doesn’t eat lamb,” I was tempted to respond but thought better of it. “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked.

“I sink so,” said the other inspector (why they need to send two policemen round to see a lamb-murdering suspect I don’t understand). “E is all wet, he ‘as washed all the traces of blood away.”

Right - so Wolfie thought ‘yum that was jolly good but if mummy sees me covered in blood she’ll get suspicious, I’d better have a bath.’ Yep, I wondered where my lavender bath oil had got to.

Wolfie watched us with an air of amusement throughout the conversation and didn’t object to the mug-shots they took of him to show the owner of the dead lamb.

“We’ll call you when we have a positive identification,” they said and drove off.

Ten minutes later another car arrived. It’s bloody hard to get any yoga done round here. This time it was the owner of said deceased lamb.

“Are you the owner of an Alsatian?”

“Allegedly, ” I replied, and added “but I don’t think he murdered your lamb, he was here all morning and anyway he’s not very aggressive.”

“Where is he? I want to see him,” he demanded. I called Wolfie thinking this might be the last time I ever saw him alive and wondering what sort of carpet he might make.

“It’s not him,” said the man, suddenly becoming quite civil and even patting Wolfie.

So I am now on my yoga mat once more, breathing heavily with relief. I am addicted to yoga after a two-day dry-run for our Renew Retreat which I completed this morning. I feel marvellous after just two days and can’t wait to see how I good I feel after the full weekend in May. Let’s just hope we don’t have as many men in uniform showing up, unless of course they’re willing to give us a massage.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

This week I felt the full force of the French educational system. Olivia had some homework about the origins of the French flag, Marianne and other French national symbols.

If I had been a contestant on ‘Who wants to be a millionaire’ I would have been disqualified. Not only did I have to phone a friend, I had to look online (for hours), ask my husband and look in an encyclopedia. And even after all that we apparently got some of it wrong.

On the way home from school last night Olivia was telling me about some things they had learnt at school about our village. I added some knowledge of my own.

“Mummy,” she said looking at me with a mixture of impatience and pity. “I really don’t think you know more than my teacher. He is a teacher after all.”

Does he knw that pink is the new black? That Laura Mercier has just launched a new water soluble all-in-one cleanser and toner? I don’t think so.

This is a man who told them last week that Father Christmas doesn’t exist. Clearly he knows nothing at all.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So the news that Carla has married Sarko has of course devastated Rupert. “How could she?” he wailed down the phone to me as I stood at the supermarket check-out.

I excitedly shared the news of the wedding with the people queuing with me at Carrefour. They didn’t seem in the least bit interested. I couldn’t wait to get into the car to listen to the news. The girls demanded Amy Winehouse.

“No,” I told them. “Sarko’s got married, I need to hear all about it.”

“We hate Sarko,” said Olivia. “He’s going to make us do homework at the after-school crèche. We want to play instead.”

The news was full of some military coup in Chad. Who cares about Chad? What we really want to know is what did Carla wear?

I had to wait until I got home to read the Daily Mail and discover that she wore white.

“How ridiculous,” I huffed.

“And why shouldn’t she wear white?” said Rupert. “She hasn’t been married before.”

I suppose he has a point. But there is something rather incongruous about a man-eating former super-model turned semi-naked rock star doing the blushing bride bit.

I am not bitter. I know I sound bitter but I’m not. I never wanted to sleep with Eric Clapton or Mick Jagger or live in the Elysee Palace. But I do truly believe that Sarko has lost the plot. OK, so he’s obviously besotted, who wouldn’t be? But there are some women who are the marrying kind and some women who are not. Even though he has only known her a little over two months he should realise that Carla is not. And no matter how much white she wears I’m not convinced this marriage will last as long as Sarko’s presidential term. Which could only be a matter of weeks if Olivia and Bea get their way.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It is not every day there are twenty men at the bottom of my drive in tight uniforms. But yesterday I was surrounded. Next to our house is a plot of land owned by a local man. Yesterday morning he decided to burn some shrubs. What he had not factored in was the fact that there was a lot of wind and his small bonfire soon threatened to ravage most of the valley.

Rupert and I saw the flames from our house and rushed over. I called the fire brigade and waited, watching helplessly as the flames destryoed everything around them. Luckily for us the wind was blowing away from the house, or I may not be feeling quite so calm about it today.

I was impressed with the fire brigade, although they took a while to show up. They stationed one fire engine at the end of our drive, just in case the direction of the wind should suddenly change.

Once the flames had died down and the men in uniform had left Rupert and I walked along the road to survey the damage. The hill looked like a black desert. And the smell was reminiscent of a BBQ gone terribly wrong.

Leonardo was not impressed when he came back from school. “This is not good,” he announced. “This is not good at all.” The girls, who had heard at school that ‘Sainte Cecile was on fire’ were angry. “That’s not nice for the trees,” said Bea. “What an idiot. Why did he go and do that?”

I feel sorry for our neighbour. He might have been a bit silly but he certainly didn’t expect all this. He wandered around his scorched earth shaking his head mumbling “there was no wind when I started the fire.” Another villager who came up to take a look (not much happens around here and this was big news) was more philosophical. “It won’t be the last time someone sets fire to the countryside,” he said.

I’m sure it won’t. But apart from the obvious damage to the trees the sad thing is that everything was looking so lovely and green for once due to the rain we’ve had. But now, rather like Amy, we’re Back to Black.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

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