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

I promised I would never betray Jonny, but that new boy is damn good. And cute. And listen to this; his mother drives a London black cab, she used to work all day, get home and give him his tea, then go out to work again at night so she could pay to put him through prep-school. The father was long gone, back to Trinidad and Tobago.

Danny Cipriani (great name, reminds me of Danny Zuko all those years ago) is twenty and as I write is making a remarkable England debut. When he started half of me wanted him to fail so that Jonny could have his job back. But he has kicked seven out of seven and not put a foot wrong. And he says he wants to become rich enough one day so that his mum can stop working. Bless him.

Late in the game they even bought Jonny on as well. Clearly I will have to adore them both for the moment. And when Jonny eventually does go, Cipriani will make the pain that much easier to bear…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

OK, so who was it? Which one of you is responsible for the following letter?

Hi Helena.

Best…
Richard

This email ranks alongside those ‘I’m a Nigerian prince and want to give you all my money’ or ‘my name is Jonny Wilkinson and I have been secretly in love with you since I spotted you in the crowd at the Marseille Velodrome’ style mails.

My husband maintains he has never heard of Richard and that it wasn’t him. Most of my friends are too lazy or busy to pull a stunt like this. Maybe it was my step-children in revenge for my column about how spoiled their generation is? Maybe Leonardo is a precocious internet user? But the only celebs he knows are Spiderman and Peter Pan.

Whoever it was, I didn’t fall for it. As if I would be seen dead next to Trinny and Suzannah. I mean, puhleeaaase.

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

“It has been suggested to me that it would be an awesome achievement if we win,” Jonny Wilkinson wrote in his column on the morning of the world cup final. “But I just can’t allow myself to think that way now, I can’t think beyond today. Because if we lose, all we have done so far here means nothing…..All we have achieved here is a lot of work, no tangible success.”

Sorry to keep droning on about Jonny (this really is the last time, at least for a week) but is he right? It seems to me terribly unfair that they got all the way to final but because they lost that final they see the whole campaign as a waste of time and effort.

Nowhere else but sport does that happen. If you are short-listed for the Booker Prize for example, and don’t win, you still get to stick a sticker on your book saying ’short-listed for the Booker Prize’. But the England team won’t be wearing rugby shirts with ‘got to the World Cup final’ on them will they?

Meanwhile my thoughts have turned reluctantly from rugby to football. I am headhunting again. This time looking for a chief financial officer for Liverpool Football Club. This involves phoning up other CFOs at football clubs and hoping they would rather be in Liverpool than where they are. So far they wouldn’t, so if you have any ideas then let me know.

But back to Jonny - I am extremely proud of the England team’s massive achievement. However I think Jonny’s attitude is what makes a great sportsman; only winning is enough. As the American football coach Henry ‘Red’ Sanders said: “Sure, winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

Maybe with a middle name like Red he’d like a job at Liverpool? Except he’s dead. Oh well, nobody’s perfect. Except for Jonny, obviously.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

OK, so we lost, but it’s only a game.

You have my permission to kill anyone who says that. It’s not only a game, it’s the WORLD CUP and we lost, rather unfairly I think. I was in a bar full of French people supporting South Africa. Helllooooo??? Aren’t we all Europeans together? Apparently not. But we were gallant and Jonny was glorious. Percy Montgomerie doesn’t stand a chance. And what was that fall into the camera all about? “That’s Percy,” said a friend of mine who was watching with me. “He sees a camera and he throws himself at it.”

I propose a knighthood for Jonny and a permanent statue in Trafalgar Square. I will be designing a fountain with a vast statue of Jonny in the middle for our garden.

My scoop in today’s Sunday Times didn’t make it to the international edition but you can read it here. You can also read my seminal piece about Jonny in the news pages (since when was the fact that we all love Jonny “news”?). Someone at the paper put some stupid joke about the Aussies and All Blacks in the middle of my text which they got wrong, making me look like one of those awful women who talk about rugby but know nothing. Which of course I am. And they messed about with our scoop, making up some drivel about a lavender garden and cutting out the brilliant neighbour completely. I can see why people hate journalists. But as I have experienced this weekend, it’s often the editors or subs that make stuff up, not us.

Meanwhile I am pleased to report that Olivia is showing signs of becoming a true French woman. She sent her first text to me today. “Olivia + Quentin,” it read. “Darling,” I said. “How sweet, your first ever text. I’ll keep it forever.”

“Don’t keep it forever,” she responded. “I might get another boyfriend.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I woke up at 6am feeling terrible. Hardly surprising as I was drinking champagne at 2am.

“We won,” I said to Rupert.

“I want to read the French newspapers,” he said.

“I want to marry Jonny Wilkinson,” I replied.

“I do too,” said Rupert.

Never has a hangover been more welcome.

(Read my Sunday Times article about our victory over France.)

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007