Alexander Solzhenitzyn, the Russian Nobel laureate and former prisoner of Stalin’s gulags, has died in Moscow aged 89. I can’t pretend to have read any of his books, but I have at least heard of them and I am aware of what a huge impact he made exposing the cruelty of the gulag system despite harassment from the KGB and then eventually twenty years in exile.

Sarkozy (keen to get on on the act) has called him “an heir to Dostoyevsky”. The letters on the BBC website all talk about how he changed people’s lives, what an inspiration he was and one even says that A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich showed him the power of literature to change the world. Solzhi, as he was known by friends in his adopted America, would probably agree. One amazing fact I read this morning is that in the gulag they were allowed neither pens nor paper, so he memorised everything and kept it in his head until he was free to write it all down.

I think every writer secretly dreams about changing the world, either with a huge scoop or with a great book. But maybe at slightly different levels and obviously linked to your circumstances. Were I living in Afghanistan, for example, I like to think I would write a book that would help the plight of women there. But as I’m not I am quite happy helping women in my world lose weight, discover matching underwear and feel better about themselves. Possibly not as ground-breaking or as important as Solzhi’s epic work, but it suits me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Although I have at times been tempted to eat my lip-gloss due to extreme hunger pangs, I am really loving the Viva Mayr Clinic (www.viva-mayr.com). It is very different to Renew Retreats, much more medical and not a mention of matching underwear, but as I have found it’s a good place to have a sore neck (massages and relaxing treatments guaranteed to ease the pain). And despite the medical angle it still offers that essential element of time to be totally and utterly selfish and focused on one self, which is something I enjoy thoroughly.

There are of course tough decisions to be made; such as do I go to the sauna or the steam bath, but I’m learning to cope.

Actually I’m learning a lot of things. I am here as I explained to write The Viva Mayr Diet Book, a diet book based on the philosophy of the clinic and the man that runs it, Dr Harald Stossier. His theory is that not only what, but more importantly, how we eat is the key to a healthy life.

The more I learn, the more it makes sense. For example one of his big things is that we have to chew our food well. When he says well, he means around 40 to 50 times. Try it. It’s not easy, but I promise it gets easier. And when you look at the benefits, it’s worth it. It eases the pressure on your digestive system, giving you more energy and generally avoiding digestive problems. It means you get the best taste and the optimum nutrients out of your food. Dr Stossier told me that if you wolf down an organic salad and properly chew a Big Mac, you will get more nutrients from the latter. Most crucially it exercises your jaw muscles so is incredibly anti-ageing because you don’t end up with that jowly look. And on top of that it makes you lose weight because you are chewing more so sending signals to your brain which says you have had enough to eat. What’s not to like? Don’t wait for the book, get chewing…..

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 have been to the Ile de Re on France’s Atlantic coast three times and every time it has rained. Notwithstanding this, I love it. In fact I’m sure after two months in the desert I will be dreaming of its green coastline and soft showers.

To me it sums up why the French are the one nation in the world who have really got this ‘how to live’ thing sorted; beautiful countryside and wildlife, gorgeous little boutiques, beaches, fabulous food and wine and donkeys wearing trousers (I kid you not).

I just paid a visit to the post office here in the unfortunately-named Ars-en-Re. It was like walking into a Knightsbridge coffee shop. The cycle hire shop is run by a woman who would give Angelina Jolie a run for her money. Rupert keeps getting punctures, I can’t think why.

We have lunch planned (obviously, what else does one do during breakfast?) in a totally trendy looking spot called Le Bo and then we take a boat to another island called Ile d’Aix. I am assuming that once we’re off the Ile de Rain the sun will shine.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

“I hate Sarkozy,” Leonardo told me this morning. The reason? He makes him go to school. “Does Sarkozy go to school?” he demanded angrily, throwing his Spider-man school bag across the room.

“No,” I said. “He has a job. Either you go to school or you have a job.”

As I said it I realised what a death sentence it sounded. Either school or work. Surely there has to be a third way?

I think in a way there is. A very smart lady from French Glamour magazine who was at the round table talk I attended in Paris summed it up well. She said that life nowadays is not as uniform as it once was. You go through several different stages, almost lives if you like. She called it “a Neapolitan cake life”.

For me, our life in England was one layer of the cake, as was university. Our life in France is another. And very soon we may be moving on to another, rather unusual, layer of cake. I’ll keep you posted.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Today is the publication date of To Hell in High Heels. When my first book came out I was close to bursting with excitement by the time it came out. I counted the days, rather like a child counts the days to his birthday. The same went for the second and the third.

But what I have found with books is that, rather like birthdays, you get all excited about them, but nothing actually changes.

Today will pass much like any other day. Leo will wake up soon and start bossing me about. I will take the children to school where my friend Mary and I will discuss how badly we slept, whether Madonna should be wearing latex underwear aged 50 and grumble about the weather. I will come home and work. Then I will collect the children for lunch, listen to their stories from school, take them back to school and so on. Today will pass just like any other normal school and work day.

Unless of course you ALL go out and buy the book. In which case I may be famous by this time tomorrow. In fact you don’t even have to go out. You can order it from amazon. I am going to have my hair done after the school run just in case.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have been struck down with a horrible flu. I must have sneezed around 700 times during the last two days. I dread to think how many brain-cells I have killed. All around the house there are bins filled with tissues. My head hurts, my body hurts, my nose is as red as a traffic light (not a good look) and I feel miserable.

I once killed a cold in its early stages by drinking a bottle of red wine and then taking to my bed. As a cure it beats Lemsip and garlic cloves. One theory is that alcohol dries you up, so at least your nose stops running. Despite my efforts over the last two nights to drink as much red wine as I can the cold is still here, lingering and victorious. I hate it.

I have just sent off the proposal for my next book which is all about happiness. One of the theories I put forward is that we should count our blessings when we’re not ill and be jolly happy to be healthy.

Well, I will certainly try to follow my own advice, once this damn flu clutters off. You’d think it might have given me Valentine’s Day off. How can I possibly kiss my husband (who is looking after me very well) when I can’t breathe through my nose?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I was a younger my stepfather would often say that the problem with me is that I am always waiting for a suitcase to show up and solve all my problems. He was referring to a suitcase of money which would magically transform my life.

I need that suitcase more than ever now. I was awake at 3.30 am again, fretting about money. As I lay there thinking about the overdraft and the school fees to be paid and the mortgage due to go out tomorrow I could literally feel my hair going grey. Older friends of mine tell me this is economically the worst time in one’s life. Never again are we going to have such financial pressures and so little money. Obviously they’re right; once my suitcase shows up we’ll be fine.

On a brighter note, Olivia has declared that she wants to be a ballerina when she grows up. “It’s my dream,” she told me last night. We watched some scenes from Swan Lake together and I asked her how she thought she was going to be able to remain frozen in one position as a member of the corps de ballet. She cannot stand or sit still for more than three seconds. I know this because I have tested her. It’s physically impossible.

“Oh, I won’t need to stand still,” she said. “I’m going to be the one at the front.” . This is not a girl waiting for a suitcase……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Yesterday Bea and I had a ballet class. Well, I say class, but it was less professional than that. I taught her the steps and arm movements with the help of a book written by Darcy Bussell called The Young Dancer. As I moved with not much grace from first to second position I thought, as I do most days, about how much I regret not pursuing my fantasy and going for a career as a ballet dancer.

But there is hope for me yet. I read today that an 88-year-old-man is about to make his balleting debut on stage this Sunday. He has been dancing since he was 79 and will be performing in Prokofiev’s The Stone Flower, the composer’s last ballet, which premiered at the Bolshoi in 1954. Now it will be the talk of Ely, a Cambridgeshire city most famous (until this coming Sunday) for its Norman Cathedral.

John Lowe, as the new Nureyev is called, says he can’t understand why more men don’t do ballet. “I went to a dance school in the high street in Ely and asked if I could do tap and ballet and they said ‘well of course you can’ and I’ve been doing it ever since,” says the retired teacher and grandfather of 11. “I see these people crawling around , hunched over smoking a cigarette - they should be doing ballet.”

I couldn’t agree more. And I am going into training now. Covent Garden here I come. In another forty years I may just be ready for you.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Sir Edmund Hillary died today. He was 88 and died of heart failure at the Auckland City Hospital. The reason you will have heard of him is that in 1953 he and Tenzing Norgay became the first climbers to reach the summit of Mount Everest.

I have never had a desire to climb mountains. In fact when we were in Zermatt last year we wandered around the village graveyard looking at the graves of all those who had failed to conquer the Matterhorn and paid the ultimate price. I looked at the names and the birth and death dates of these young men and wondered what on earth possessed them to give up what was probably a very bright future to get to the top of a mountain. I suppose it’s some desire to do something that you will be remembered for. But wouldn’t it just be easier to write a book or become a golfer?

But some of the greatest acts of bravery have come from expeditions. The British have a long and illustrious history of exploring. The Antarctic explorer Captain Lawrence Oates, weakened by frostbite, walked into a blizzard knowing it meant certain death so as to increase the chances of survival for the remaining men. His last words are among the most famous quotations ever. “I am just going outside and may be some time,” he said as he left the hut.

“Those were the days when men were proper blokes,” said Rupert as we watched a programme about an expedition to the north pole in the 1960s the other evening.

It is true it seems a more romantic time, when men were driven to daring deeds and to discover the world you actually had to go there instead of just googling it. Having said that Hillary may have been undaunted by Everest, but when it came to proposing to his wife he was too shy and so asked his future mother-in-law to do it.

Hillary’s wife and daughter were tragically killed in a plane crash in 1975. But his son Peter climbed Everest in 2003, along with the Tenzing’s son, Jamling Tenzing Norgay, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Hillary’s ascent.

So maybe we are still up to daring deeds, we just need the right inspiration.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008