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

Despite paying thousands of euros a year into the French pension and social security system, we are under no illusion that they will give us any money when we’re older and even greyer. So we have been vetting the children.

“Which of you will look after us when we’re old?” asked Rupert the other day.

“Bea will be no good,” said Olivia, “she’ll be too busy with her boyfriends.”

“What about you? You’ll look after us, won’t you?” he asked.

“Only if you’re good,” she replied.

So parental truth number eight is this. Although your children have the right to drive you mad and behave as badly as is possible for twenty years or more, you do not. But I guess we have had our turn with our parents.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Oh help, how depressing. When I was young my stepfather would always say to me; “You’ll wish you listened to me, I am older and wiser than you and I know better.” Of course I didn’t listen to him, I found listening to anyone extremely tedious and, anyway, how come he knew so much?

Who was it who said I started out thinking my parents knew nothing, by the time I was twenty I was amazed at how much they had learnt?

Anyway, the night before last there was a storm and Bea couldn’t sleep. “Go to sleep Bea, we’re going to the ballet tomorrow night, you’ll be tired.” Still she fiddled about until the early hours. Yesterday afternoon I told her to have a sleep. “You’ll sleep through the ballet tonight,” I warned her. “Have a sleep.” No way. In the car on the way to Montpellier I tried again. “I’m not tired,” said a by-now-extremely-tired Bea. “I don’t want to sleep.”

We went to see Coppelia, performed by the National Ballet of Kazan. The what? I hear you ask. Well, apparently it’s part of the National Opera of Tartarstan, in the Volga region. Wherever they came from, they were excellent. They danced as only Russian ballet dancers can dance, with 100% precision and constant smiles. The chorus was perfectly synchronised, the prima ballerina impeccable. The male lead had buttocks that made you want to weep with a mixture of lust and envy.

“I love it,” said Bea, during the interval, glowing and grinning from ear to ear. “I’m going to dream about it.” And indeed she did. She dreamt about it all the way through the third act which has a pas de deux I would travel to Tartarstan to see.

Tempted as I am to say “I told you so” I remember how bloody annoying that was when my stepfather did it, so I won’t. I might just buy her a DVD of the ballet for Christmas and watch the third act with her.

All four girls (Bea, Manon, Olivia and Estelle) were great. An English couple behind us said their hearts sank when they saw that they were behind four children. “But they were less trouble than our neighbours,” they told us on leaving. “The girls were all transfixed.” Apart from Bea of course, who was asleep.

Even if she missed the final act I am thrilled. I have always loved ballet and I was really hoping my girls would too. It is one of those things that when done well leaves you with a warm glow for days afterwards and an inexplicable desire to jump around wearing a tutu. Which I think is a good thing. When I once did this with my friend Louise in her aunt’s garden we were told “it’s so much better to live out your fantasies.” I couldn’t agree more.

Having my two happy little girls sitting with me watching ballet dancers all the way from Russia is something I have fantasised about for years. Even if the little one did miss one of the best bits.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

We got back yesterday evening from a perfect press trip. I did write and tell you all about it but the blog seems to have vanished. I can only assume the tourist board of the Var, keen to avoid yet more visitors to the magical islands of Porquerolles and Port-Cros somehow managed to infiltrate my blog and delete it. Anyway, to sum up, it was totally perfect. Lots of sunshine, sea, sand, and not a PR person in sight. The only PR I saw a lot of was Pale Rose.

Then we came home. It started well. “Did you have a nice sleep?” was Leo’s first question. But then it went pear-shaped. Children, rather like animals, will punish you if you go away. The parental truth is that much as you NEED to get away in order to remain married, they don’t care. I mean they care about you remaining married but they don’t care what takes you away, they don’t like it.

They bickered and fought and pushed each other off the trampoline and argued and wept and generally behaved as badly as was humanly possible until it was time for bed.

But I was prepared for this. I had three days to prepare for this. And rather like a terrible hangover after a fantastic party I have to conclude that it was worth it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I have always prided myself on the fact that Rupert and I have never had an argument in front of the children. I think after almost 10 years of marriage this is incredibly good going. But, I’m sorry to report, parental truth number six is that you will, at some stage, argue with your spouse in front of your children. And a few nights ago, I did.

I won’t go into the details. Obviously I was totally, 100 % right and he was impossibly wrong. But the reaction of the children was not as I had imagined.

After about three minutes Olivia started to cry, which then set the other two off. I felt like a wicked witch and we immediately stopped arguing. A little later on, Olivia told me she didn’t like us arguing.

“I don’t like it either darling,” I replied. “But you three argue all the time, now you see how hateful it is.”

“Yes,” she said. “But we can’t split up.”

Fair comment I suppose. Then came Bea’s reaction, as she flounced past me in her cute little swimming costume.

“If you two split up, I’m not living with either of you.”

We have been warned.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

When I was a little girl I would spend hours hitting a tennis ball against a cement wall in a barn on the farm we lived. One of the few advantages of getting older is that I can now pay someone to hit a tennis ball back to me.

I am sure that anyone who is a parent thinks their children are having a nicer childhood than they did. Last night we sat watching our three jump in and out of the pool, climb the almond tree to pick some almonds and push each other in the hammock squealing with laughter eating figs from the fig tree.

“I’d like to have my childhood again,” said Rupert. “Here.”

I agree with him. But the children of course don’t see it. Last Wednesday as I spent my whole afternoon driving them around to their various sports activites Olivia was complaining.

“When I was little I didn’t have anyone to drive me anywhere,” I said, sounding like the Monty Python ‘we had it tough’ sketch. “I had to walk three miles to the local stable, muck out horses all morning and then in return I would get to ride for an hour.”

“Why didn’t you cycle there?” she asked. Good point. Wish I’d thought of that.

Anyway, back to tennis. During my lesson this morning a young man who looked like a cross between Rafael Nadal and Feliciano Lopez arrived on the court next door to me.

In my seven years here I have yet to spot what men would call a ‘total babe’. In about three seconds this man made up for seven years of babe deprivation. Then he took his top off.

I am going to call my catholic friend Mary with whom I had a heated discussion last night and tell her she’s right. There is a god.

If you don’t have children you have probably never had to deal with head-lice. They are more irritating than unwanted house-guests and seem to stay longer. My step-daughter first got them aged five and is only now (aged 13) finally getting rid of them.

But now my children have them. And of course I have caught them too. I thought they would be put off by Rodolfo Valentin’s exquisite infusions, but no, they love them.

As any head-lice enemy will know the most effective way to get them out is by pouring conditioner on your hair and combing them out. Of course with hair extensions this is no longer an option. So I will have to find someone willing to pick them out, which could be tricky. It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase nit-picking.

I have become a woman possessed. I can’t see one of my children’s heads without pouncing on them and picking out lice. Yesterday Leonardo and I spent a happy hour on the terrace while I picked out his head-lice and he ran them over with his yellow toy Mercedes.

But that is the only upside to them and frankly it’s just not enough. I have heard that there is an electric gun you buy that zaps them. If anyone knows where you can get it from; please advise. Electrocuting them could be even more fun than running them over.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Never mind the vinaigrette, last night I felt totally overcome with an overwhelming and heavy sense of responsibility. I looked around the table at my three children. They were all happily eating, arguing over who should have laid out the napkins and whether Jesus had created my hair (actually he didn’t, Rodolfo Valentin did).

Suddenly I thought; “Help, their whole happiness, health and lives are in my hands.”

I think in part I am feeling like this because next week I go away. I have one more luxury spa to visit in the Caribbean (it’s such a tough assignment) and am going to spend the week being pampered and also finishing the book which I said I would get to my agent by the end of April.

Most sane people would be busy packing their bikinis, waxing their legs and shouting ‘yippee’ at the thought of a week in the Caribbean. Not me. As I walked into my son’s room this morning and smelled his yummy, gorgeous smell my only thought was “I can’t live without this for a week”.

But of course I can, and I will, and the children will be fine with ‘Mami’ Chantal and ‘Papi’ Gilbert who spoil them and adore them and do all the things with them I will never do like go to McDonalds, drink Coca-Cola and watch Spiderman in French.

I know from past experience that once I get on that plane and start thinking about the book my angst diminishes, but that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with now.

My husband meanwhile is in Delhi, hanging out with my best friend. He helpfully emailed me this morning to tell me she “has not one wrinkle and looks great”. So is the answer to staying young living in India, surrounded by younger men (she works on an Indian version of a FHM-style Mag) and not having three children? If so, it’s too late for me.

I’ll just have to accept my wrinkles and go and smell my son’s pyjamas.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

We are in Zermatt on a skiing holiday with the children organised by a company called Powder Byrne. The concept is brilliant. They take your children away to places with lots of other children and people like a very nice man called Ed who like looking after children from 8.30 to 4pm so you can ski, sit in the sun, drink hot chocolate or do whatever you like doing up mountains. Then they organise a dinner for them every day at 6pm so you can have an hour in the bar.

This is all well and good, but what I want to know is this: Is there a company that looks after them at night? If not, can I just say that this is a business opportunity waiting to happen and I will be your very first and most loyal customer.

Our night went something like this after a nine-hour train journey from Montpellier to Zermatt.

9.30 pm (by which time I was fast asleep on account of Leonardo keeping me up all night the night before). “Mummy, daddy, Leo won’t go to sleep, he keeps annoying us.”

We get them into bed again, take my laptop into their room and try to calm them down with ABBA. This works for a few hours.

Midnight “Mummy, daddy, we can’t sleep.”

Off I go again, now I try Jack Johnson and swearing.

3am “Mummy, it’s already morning time in France. We’re ready.” The three of them are up and fully dressed. Great.

I explain (rather patiently I might add, considering) that when the sun is not up, it is not morning, here or in France.

They get back into their pyjamas and go back to bed reluctantly.

6am “Mummy, my bed isn’t tidy up.” This time it’s Leo, alone.

“Like I care,” I’m tempted to respond. Instead I tell him to go back to his untidy bed, which of course he refuses to do until I go with him and make his bed for him.

Olivia groans from her bed but luckily the girls sleep through the untidy bed episode.
7am we have to wake them all up to get them ready for ski-school.

It is now 7pm and I approach the night rather like a torture victim approaches his torture chamber. I suppose the only upside is, it can’t get any worse.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007