I have just read the sort of story that makes me want to weep. In fact I am having to concentrate on not weeping. A man is being held in Italy for the murder of his two sons aged 12 and 14. He threw them down a 60-foot well in 2006.

Their bodies were discovered by accident when another boy fell down the same well on Monday night. Evidence suggests these two boys did not die when they were thrown in. Instead they suffered a slow and agonising death in the darkness. One of them was found curled up in the foetal position, his thumb in his mouth.

Their mother says her life is over. I can understand that. The agony of thinking what your boys must have gone through is more than any mother can bear.

There is nothing in the story to suggest a motive on the part of the father. But what motive could there possibly be for throwing your children to a hellish death?

No one knows how long Salvatore and Francesco survived down there. We’ll never know if they comforted each other, or if one of them watched the other die, we can only guess at the terror and desperation they must have felt. And we will probably never understand what drove their father to this most cruel and heinous act.

You worry about all sorts of things happening to your children; from accidents to abductions to illness. But not this. How could you ever imagine this?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Yesterday it was Bea’s turn to see Rome. We got off the train and headed straight to the Vatican. Bea wants to be an artist and I thought the Sistine Chapel might inspire her. She is also very keen on religion. We passed a shop with lots of pictures of the Pope outside.

“Is that God?” she asked.

The Christmas tree and the crib were a great hit with her. Nothing excites Bea quite as much as the sight of a “Baby Jesus”. Sadly there was a queue of about two miles to get into the museum so it was either wait there all day or save Michelangelo for another time and see some of Rome.

We headed for the Pantheon first. Bea thought it was fine, but was rather more interested in the shops. She managed to find a charming sequined hat (pink of course). Just like her sister, she loved the Trevi Fountain, which confirms my theory that it is a fountain built for children.

We sat in the afternoon sun at the top of the Spanish Steps while she drew two pictures of the view below us. She knows it is my favourite place in Rome and was scandalised to see some McDonald’s cups abandonded on the steps.

“At your favourite place,” she fumed. “How COULD they?”

I wonder if one day when she is a groovy young art student she will come back to the Spanish Steps and sell her drawings to lucky tourists.

Today is New Year’s Day. I lay awake most of the night listening to Italians driving home from their parties, wondering what resolutions to make. Half of me thinks resolutions are a silly habit, but at the same time I can’t seem to stop myself.

So for 2008 I resolve to write a novel, do Pilates every day and bring Leonardo (aka Spiderman) to Rome. Both Olivia and Bea have declared the Trevi Fountain their favourite place. I wonder what his will be?

And while we’re on the subject of Spiderman. I have now seen all three films (at least 40 times) and have an idea for a New Year’s resolution for Mary-Jane. She has been kidnapped by baddies (countless times), fallen at high-speed from sky-scrapers, locked in taxis suspended from giant webs in the sky. How about making 2008 they year you get another boyfriend? Just an idea….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Not since Audrey Hepburn was there has there been such a pretty visitor to Rome. Yesterday Olivia and I took the train (and the strain, it was 30 minutes late) and went into town.

“Do you realise that since we got to Italy we have eaten pasta every lunch and every dinner?” Olivia said to me once we were finally on the train. “We could eat pizza too, you know.”

Once in town we jumped on a bus to the Spanish Steps. You couldn’t actually see the steps for the amount of people there but it was lovely to be there, mainly trying to sell us useless things to throw in the air or fake handbags (actually not a bad buy for 20 euros compared to 1850 euros for the real thing at Gucci down the road).

Olivia’s favourite sight was the Trevi Fountain. I covered her eyes until we got to a peak viewing spot and then lifted her up above the crowds.

“I want exactly the same in our garden,” she announced.

Olivia was amazed by the Pantheon, she thought the ceiling was “drawed” and was most impressed with the irrigation system. I am guessing this is hereditary. Her father has just finished writing a book about water.

We decided against the pizza and ate lunch in a restaurant my parents used to go to called Nino’s when they lived in Via Frattina, close to the Spanish Steps. Olivia had Fettucine al Ragu and I had Penne all’ arrabbiata. It is one of those lovely old-fashioned places with white linen and professional waiters. I sat there gazing at this litte girl, so elegant and grown-up opposite me, eating her pasta with confidence, and felt extremely proud of her.

After lunch we went for an ice-cream in Piazza Navona. Sadly there was a kind of Christmas fair going on with all sorts of dreadful stalls and poisonous food for sale. We couldn’t see the square but the Bernini fountain was covered in scaffolding anyway.

We’ll just have to come back. As Audrey Hepburn’s character says when asked which city she has enjoyed most on her European tour: “Rome, by all means Rome”.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

We are finally here after what feels like several days on a train. All was going relatively well until the night train was delayed. First they said 20 minutes. There we sat among the alcoholics and the homeless at Nice station (not so nice), praying for our train to arrive. Then it was 40 minutes. By now we were best friends with the down-and-outs.

The train was not much of an improvement on Nice Station. It was dirty, old-fashioned and cold.

“Look at this,” shrieked Bea when she saw the loo with no loo seat and water all over the floor. “Who on earth are these disgusting people?”

Olivia was not impressed with her couchette. “This is the hardest bed I have ever been in,” she complained. If the aim is to reduce the amount of people flying around the globe creating carbon footprints then the trains need to be dramatically improved. So far this is not an experience I am keen to repeat.

The train finally pulled out of the station at half past midnight, by which time we were all horribly over-tired, grubby and generally grumpy. The children fell asleep straight away, despite the basic conditions. I lay there anticipating all the things that would wake me up.

We were practically next door to the guard’s room and the two guards (when they weren’t busy chatting up some rather overweight Italian girl) would open the door and let it slam shut. The door, when it opened, sounded like something out of a hammer-house horror movie. Crrreeeeeeaaaaaak it said and then BANG followed by a loud click as the lock connected.

This happened about 200 times between midnight and 7am. At one stage I went to visit said door and guards, wearing my silk pyjamas and my UGGs, an outfit I must remember to show off more often.

“Could you please shut up?” I asked. “My children can’t sleep. And stop opening and slamming the door for 10 minutes? I’m taking the plane home.”

Two things struck me as I said this. One, how effortlessly I can lie to men in uniform and two, how old I must be. They looked really scared and apologetic, switched off their Italian pop music and said how sorry they were.

At 7.30am Leonardo woke us all up. We had another two hours to go to Rome. By this stage they were getting rather fed up of trains. We sat at some place called Orte for half an hour.

When we got to the station my mother met us and we had breakfast. We had two hours to kill before the train to where she lives now.

“I want to go home,” wailed Bea. We had all had enough. Finally at 11.35 we got on a train bound for Ancona. An hour later my mother announced that after this stop, ours was next. I looked out of the window. ORTE said a big sign.

Geography never was my strong point……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Relaxing, snoozing, reading a book, enjoying a glass of wine by the fire….but that’s just my husband. Me, I am on a train bound for Italy with the three children. As I write (after four and a half hours) they have finally lost the plot and are running up and down the train irritating everyone. It reminds me of the story of a friend of mine travelling up to the Lake District with her two children when they were aged four and five.
“When are you next taking this train?” asked another passenger. “I just want to know so I can avoid it.”
Actually they have been very good. We have played ‘Operation’ (Olivia was Dr McDreamy) about 100 times, Leo has watched Spiderman III (thanks Father Christmas) and we have gone through every interactive Christmas card I was sent this year.
We arrive in Nice in half an hour and then we have a two-hour wait before the night train to Rome. I am planning to take the children to an Asian fast food place I went to last time. There is no menu, all the food is laid out in a glass counter, everything from red Thai chicken curry to stir-fried rice and other unidentifiable dishes. So hopefully they will spend about an hour deciding what to eat and then we can get on our sleeper. I am still trying to decide which child is least likely to fall out of the top bunk.
My mother is meeting us at the station in Rome and then it’s back to her new house in the mountains and pasta and being looked after for ten days.
I am planning to take the children into central Rome, but maybe one at a time. “Are there any shops there?” was Olivia’s first question. I obviously need to introduce her to the joys of eating ice-cream in Piazza Navona, gazing at the Pantheon and walking up the Spanish Steps. And then maybe we’ll fit in some shopping.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

My journey home was marvellous. We got on the Eurostar at the newly revamped St Pancras Station. When the train stopped I thought we were in Ashford in Kent or at best Lille. Turns out we were at the Gare du Nord.

Here at home it is a winter wonderland. The lawn is white and the rivers frozen. I am also frozen as am too posh (or maybe too poor) to have any central heating. Leonardo has developed an alarming habit of waking at 5am. “Talk to me mummy,” he shouts in my ear. So for fear of waking the others I bring him downstairs where the temperatures are hovering around zero.

While he watches Scooby-Doo wrapped in several blankets, I work. I wonder who else watches children’s TV at what would be 4am UK time? Other insomniac children I suppose. Top Cat was on this morning, which takes me back. Amazing (and rather comforting) that children’s TV is so consistent. But is that hapless cop ever going to get the better of him? My aunt always said that if you haven’t achieved anything by the time you’re forty you never will. So I guess he’s way past his sell-by date.

Talking of my aunt, you may remember she is not speaking to me since the publication of Ciao Bella. I am taking the children to Italy after Christmas to stay with my mother. My aunt has asked to see them but demanded I go out. I am of course contrite and already planning my vanishing act. Rupert is less so. His first reaction was that I should tell her to get lost. When I refused to he gave Olivia a message for her.

“Tell her she’s a silly old trout and that the truth hurts,” he said. I’m sure Olivia won’t pass it on. But there’s a small, rebellious part of me that hopes she will. How are we getting to Rome? Train of course. I just hope Leo sleeps on. We don’t get to Rome until after 9.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I brushed my teeth this morning as the Ligurian countryside flashed by. I am on a night train bound for France after two days in Florence. The night train does not compare with the luxury of the Grand Hotel, and the view of Liguria may not be as dreamy as the one I had of the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, but as a method of travel it is marvellous. I got into my bunk at midnight and woke at 8am. That happens about once a year at home.

I was rather tired. The office party the night before was great fun. “Don’t get drunk,” my mother emailed to tell me just before I left my room to join the others in the bar. And for once I didn’t. We ate in a restaurant that doubles as a museum during the day. I was sitting opposite a fresco of Dante having a conversation with Boccaccio. After dinner we went to a nightclub. Yes, you did hear me right. I went to a nightclub. And there discovered another advantage of getting older. I never have to go to one again.

The music was loud (funny that) and that sort of house stuff I loathe. They played one song Tamsin (a colleague from The 7 Arts) and I could sing along to and we danced happily. But then it was back to the dreary deep thud of monotonous music I’m sure even young people don’t want to listen to. Wouldn’t they prefer some Abba? Or maybe some Banarama? I know I would. And most of the pretty young things looked bored out of their minds.

As far as I can make out the point of a nightclub is this. If you’re a girl you show up wearing as little as possible and dance nonchalantly hoping one of the boys will come and pick you up and take you away from this meat market. If you’re a boy, you stand around posing and drinking and assessing the talent. I guess for women the ultimate aim is to be picked up by someone who marries you, thus making another visit unnecessary.

As we walked back to the hotel through the streets of Florence in the early hours of the morning I couldn’t help wondering if nightclubs had been around in Dante’s day the Inferno would have been even scarier.

Before I get to Nice, I must just tell you the best line of the trip. Ben, my boss, was looking up at the statue of David (the real one in the Accademia) when he said “Jeez, look at the size of him. Imagine how big Goliath must have been.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

There are worse places to spend a morning. I am at the Grand Hotel in Florence. My room looks out over the city and the Arno River. Inside it is almost more impressive. There are frescoes on three walls depicting romantic scenes from too long ago to even contemplate. The colours are faded reds, yellows and blues. The scenes unmistably Florentine. My bed has a regal structure over it which makes me feel like something out of a fairy-tale every time I look at it. There is a plush red velvet chair that is so deep, large and comfortable that I am tempted to stay in it for the rest of the week.

I am here for The 7 Arts (the head-hunters I work for) Christmas party. This is one of the advantages of having a proper job as well as writing. You get to see how people who have not spent most of their adult lives trying to be writers live.

Talking of trying to be a writer, I am reading a most brilliant and inspirational book called The Paris Review Interviews (Vol I). It is interviews with literary luminaries such as Truman Capote, Ernest Hemingway, Rebecca West and Dorothy Parker. I read last night that Capote was a horizontal writer. He always wrote lying down. Hemingway on the other hand preferred to stand up in his oversized slippers in front of a bookcase which he wrote on. This is obviously where I have been going wrong. Sitting down at my desk is not going to get me anywhere.

Happily as my adaptor plug doesn’t work properly I am writing this crouching on the floor with one foot pressed against the plug. Does that count do you think? Later on I may try penning a chapter or two while swinging from the wrought iron chandelier. That’s clearly what it’s there for.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

A man in London last week was arrested for trying to have sex with a fence. This wasn’t just any fence, it was in Leicester Square Gardens. I know the fence, and very attractive it is too.

Apparently Daniel French, aged 24, told police “I’m going to have sex with that fence.” “Oh no you’re not,” said the police and dragged him off.

The week before a “cycle-sexualist” (what quango came up with that ridiculous phrase) was caught half-naked in a compromising position with a bicycle in Scotland.

What I want to know is this: whatever happened to a good old-fashioned hooker? My mother has just moved to Italy and she lives in the middle of nowhere. “If you get lost,” she tells visitors, “ask the villagers for la puttana, I live just above the whore.”

My mother tells me the hooker arrives in her “office” just before 7am, parks up and stays all day. “She doesn’t even take time off for lunch, which I think is when she’s busiest.”

I imagine in my mother’s village fences and bicycles and other inanimate objects can sleep safely at night….

Bea is ill. She has a “baddie tummy” and I mean really bad. Poor little love has been writhing around in agony, her temperature soaring. But the most astounding effect of her illness has been on those around her.

Her best friend and soul-mate Manon spent all day at school weeping. When told by the others at school that there are other children to play with she responded; “There’s only Bea.” Leo spent most of his time by her bedside yesterday, watching her anxiously. Even Olivia, who is normally arguing with her, is upset. At dinner last night she threw down her knife and fork and announced that it just wasn’t any fun without Bea.

I agree it’s no fun. I miss her constant singing and chatting, her weird hairstyles and cool outfits for school. The doctor said she should be better within 48 hours. That was 24 hours ago, although it feels like a week.

Meanwhile a story from Italy about three feuding nuns caught my attention. Relations between the three remaining sisters of Santa Clara in Bari deteriorated so badly that one of them ended up hospital with scratches to her face. The Vatican wants to close the convent. Two of them have left but the third one, a Sister Liliana, refuses to abandon her home of 44 years. She has written to the Pope telling him she will only leave when God decides it is time for her to go. Negotiations are proving difficult as she is sticking to her vow of silence.

If only one of the nuns had fallen ill with a baddie tummy they might all still be friends.

Tomorrow I drive two hours for an eight-minute appearance on Radio Four’s Woman’s Hour. Is it worth it? I think so. I am on air with a woman who has written a book called Dutch women don’t get depressed. Apparently they’re happy because they don’t have much sex, wear dreadful clothes and are under no pressure to be good hostesses. ‘What about Dutch men?’ I want to ask the author. One can only assume they are suicidal.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007