I am having a nice time hanging out with Leo, while the girls are away in Italy visiting Roman ruins and avoiding my aunt.

Hanging out with Leo means not only learning to love the Beautiful Game. It means learning to live, breathe, dream, think and talk football; all the time.

At the weekend I was trying to watch the box set of ‘Mistresses’. This is the kind of useless thing you can do when you are gainfully employed and have someone else to do the ironing. I made the excuse that it was ‘research’ for my book, and actually it did give me some good ideas. Anyway, Leo was keen to play football. So I decided to combine the two. We came up with a game called ‘Newspaper Football’ whereby I sat with a folded up copy of the FT in front of me and he had to score a goal by hitting it. My job was to protect my goal and watch the TV at the same time.

Then there are the conversations we have. “Mummy, was I born when Zola left Chelsea?” he asked the other day. Thank goodness for the Internet. The answer by the way is 2003.

As I write Leo is at a football camp. Yesterday was his first day. It is in a dome-like construction but searingly hot. He still refused to take his Chelsea shirt off, insisting on wearing the camp T-shirt over the top of it.

We head off on holiday on Saturday. I am hoping we will find some outlets for his football fetish in Geneva, Paris and London. I love the fact that he is so mad about something. If not, there’s always Newspaper Football.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

So the most shocking one was that I found myself supporting Germany against Argentina. It started with a nasty foul by the Argies and then a game of football played by the Germans the way it should be played. Totally magical and heavenly to watch. The beautiful game in motion. I may not have any friends left by the time this news gets out, but I am now a German fan…

My second revelation was Twilight. OK so I know the third film is now out, but it seemed as good a time as any to catch up on the first one. I loved it. I think I am well and truly in touch with my inner tween. Edward Cullen. Yum.

I also realised that Leo is far more perceptive than we often give him credit for. My friend Justine came to see me and was bemoaning where all the time had gone since the last World Cup.

“What on earth have I been doing for four years?” she wailed.

“Sitting around drinking wine, like Mummy,” said Leo.

The Wimbledon final is about to begin and just so you don’t think I have gone totally awry when it comes to sporting allegiances I end with this…good luck Rafa, to you I remain faithful. Forever. Unless Edward Cullen starts playing tennis that is.

One of the advantages of living here is that you can pop to Oman for the weekend, which is what we did last week.

We drove from Abu Dhabi over the border to the Musandam Peninsula and the exclusive, gorgeous Zighy Bay resort.

Arriving there from the city through a mountain track populated by goats was extremely exciting and romantic. The resort itself has a feel to it a little like a small Spanish village from another era, with sandy tracks the children cycled up and down and wooden huts.

Listening to the sea was glorious, the waves crashing against the beach and hundreds of little crabs scuttling around like over-sized demented spiders.

It was so lovely to see the children outside, cycling around, playing and swimming. They had three friends there and the six of them roamed around in a pack, in total safety, and ordered room service endlessly (eating for kids under the age of 12 was free).

There was a classic line from Bea when she told me off for being caught topless by her young friends; “Mummy, you only have one life and there is no point in spending it naked”.

The four of adults played tennis (once we got Leo and Max, the new Rafa and Federer off the court), read books and watched the England game which was undoubtedly the low-light of the weekend.

Having said that possibly the only thing that was more painful and irritating than witnessing England’s sad performance was watching my husband flirting with a Brazilian woman sitting next to us. What is it about Brazilian women that sends men mad? You just have to mention the word Brazilian and they start salivating and behaving like fools.

As there were no men for me to flirt with I went to bed at half-time hoping that by the time I woke up England would have scored. They hadn’t, but neither had my husband, so I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

French Open time…..maybe they would like to be in my book?

here is one I will miss this year….

finally, here is another one for the road….

(that’s enough semi-naked tennis players, Ed)

I am still incapacitated. Not completely of course, and nowhere near truly serious, but it feels bad. I am longing to exercise; to run, so stretch, to swim, to move. From being able to put my hands flat on the floor with my legs straight, I can now only just get to me knees. Horrible. Months and months of improving my flexibility just gone.

A friend of mine, a yoga teacher called Anna, once said that if ever she doesn’t feel like exercising she thinks to herself ‘how lucky I am to be able to exercise’.

When this back pain passes I shall look at a treadmill with anticipation and joy, and not think ‘how soon can I get away from you’ the minute I get on it. I will go into each yoga class wishing it would last forever and I will embark on 50 lunges with the enthusiasm of a woman walking into a La Perla 60 per cent off sale.

When the back pain passes that is……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

All went well. The Egyptian scarf was a huge success. Leo lent it to his girlfriend during the mid-morning break when she complained that she was cold.

“Then I kissed her,” he told us proudly over lunch. “But not on the lips.”

“Er, does she know she’s your girlfriend?” asked Rupert, a highly-trained hack, always ready with the most penetrating question.

“No, of course not,” said Leo, tucking into his pumpkin salad.

“Oh good. I’ve got lots of girlfriends like that,” said his father.

Meanwhile the other gift from Egypt; the tent pictured here, has been a huge success. They have pretty much lived in it since I got back. So we have been allowed to watch the Australian Open undisturbed. What an amazing tournament, I am going to miss it once it is all over tomorrow.

I’m sure once Heloise, as the “girlfriend” is called, sees the tent she will be begging to be Leo’s girlfriend and stop her flirting with the other boys. I hope so anyway. The end of the tennis along with a broken-hearted Leo might be more than I can handle all at the same time……

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

There is much to report on family life as the school holidays have begun. For some reason even the weekend seemed busier. I think we probably have only just recovered from the birthday party. And poor Rupert is business editor for two weeks so rarely out of the office.

My in-laws, who are heroic in their efforts to travel and see their offspring around the world, are here. During the last year they have been here (twice), India and Portugal. And they are in their late seventies/early eighties respectively. My father-in-law even managed to get someone to give him a beer during Islamic New Year (he of course had no idea the corner shop doesn’t sell beer or that Islamic New Year is dry). He met a woman who was so charmed by him she went to her flat and picked up some beer for him. Imagine our surprise when we came back from the beach to find him watching the cricket sipping a bottle of beer (obviously the house was totally dry after the party…)

Last night Rupert and I took Leo to see the football. It was final of the FIFA Club World Cup. It was fun seeing Thierry Henry in real life but I hadn’t really heard of anyone else and their kit was the most awful orange colour. Leo loved it which is the main thing (not the kit I hasten to add he has better taste than that) although he looks a bit glum here. This evening we are all off to the races so to speak; it is race night at the Abu Dhabi Golf and Equestrian Club and later in the week it is Christmas Day…I have never felt so un-Christmassy, but I guess that might because the sun is shining and there aren’t many carol singers in Abu Dhabi.

Anyway, for the full report on family life I defer to my own very special guest blogger Bea. She really should have her own column….

FAMILY LIFE !
It could have been a crazy time for the wright/frith powell family
with rupert wright’s work going on .It’s great. to have
a lovely family like bea has her sister olivia who
is 10 doesn’t want to be the oldest and
as her little brother leo who’s 6
only wants a new roman book
with all the pictures of the olden days.
we all miss france terribly
as my mother who tryes to keep
the family together consvinced
us not to go back there “it’s better here
we have a cleaner and a driver “
she says

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

There is a rather old-fashioned English expression to describe two people that are extremely similar. They are peas in a pod.

I think one could safely say that Olivia and I peas in a pod. She looks like me (or rather like I used to) and we have scarily similar personality traits. For example, we have both been described as control freaks on numerous occasions. In fact the first time it happened to Olivia was at her christening. Mrs Miller, her godfather’s wife, held her in her arms and said: “This child is a control freak.”

Olivia told me last night on the way back from playing tennis that she remembers her christening, if not Mrs Miller’s early diagnosis.

“I thought you were trying to throw me in the lake,” she said. “And all around me there were people crying.”
It is very possible that there was weeping, due to the auspicious occasion, but there was no lake.
As I mentioned we were driving home after playing tennis. It seems even on a tennis court we are peas in a pod.

“Every shot I hit either goes out or in the net,” she yelled at one stage.

“Welcome to my world,” I told her.

Having said that, if she continues to have lessons at the rate she is (yes, somehow she has managed to convince me to arrange private tennis lessons, as well as the group ones she has, because she too wants to see Rafa and Federer and her big tournament is on the 21st), she will at least be able to hit the ball over the net when she gets to my age.

I suppose you could call that evolutionary progress. But it’s not cheap.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Bea and Leo entered their first-ever tennis tournament today. The prize for the winner of the tournament was to play with Rafa and Federer when they come over for the Capitala Tennis Tournament at the end of the year.

I realised very quickly neither of my two were in the running. They were (bless them) comfortably the worst players there. I think some of the nine-year olds would have beaten me. But there was one glimmer of hope….the raffle.

The raffle would draw two names who would also get to play the two stars, but it meant staying until the very end of the tournament even though we were being humiliated on court.

There aren’t many things that will entice me to hang around a hot, humid tennis court without a drink in sight. But the potential prize was far too big to give up on. Just imagine, I kept thinking, if we win. And we have more chance than most as there are two of them in the raffle. I mean whoever wins will have to be accompanied by their mother, right?

Finally after almost four hours, the moment arrived. As the first name was drawn out of the hat my heart sank. How stupid of me to waste a whole morning and to put them through all this hanging around. I never win anything and it seems genetically unlikely that my children will.

The first name was disqualified for not being there. Another name was called out – Patricia Wright. No one answered. Suddenly I realised it was Beatrice Wright they meant, I leapt to my feet:

“It’s you Bea, it’s you!” I yelled like the worst possible football mum.

Bea went to the front to be congratulated, beaming. She (and I) were on a high for the rest of the day, and will possibly remain high for another week. After the tennis we went to the cinema to see Michael Jackson’s This is It. A woman in front of us wept through the whole thing, the girls, who had heard Janet was in town for the Grand Prix, asked if she was his sister. She was not, she was just a bereaved fan. Sad as we are about Jacko’s demise, nothing could wipe the smile off our faces.

The lucky winner is asleep next to me as I write and has promised to practice her tennis before her big match. I am going to work out how to use my video camera and plan my outfit. I’m not sure which is more stressful. But I am extremely happy that my genetic predisposition for never winning anything has not been passed on to Baby Bea. As Rupes said, Napoleon would approve, he liked his generals to be lucky.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

It’s over. All the preparations, the building, the publicity, the hype and the actual race. As I write the drivers are probably boarding their private jets on their way home to Monaco or wherever it is they live.

At the last minute I got a ticket to the race. It was incredible. The sound of the cars is like nothing you’ve ever heard. They give you ear-plugs as you go in and you do need them. The raw energy and vibe carries you away; it really is a very sexy sport. I tried to take a picture of Jenson Button as he roared past, but think I missed him….

So life is slowly returning to normal. No more champagne, no more parties and no more deciding what to wear to yet another five-star event. Quite nice really. And the children are pleased. As Bea said to me last night when I told her off about leaving her homework to the last minute: “Well, it’s not my fault you were out with Prince Andrew all weekend.”
Not strictly true, but my weekend and indeed week was dominated by the Prince and the interview, which is now all written up and going to press tonight. Check it out on Saturday at www.thenational.ae.

I am onto my next feature; cupcakes. Slightly less glamorous and exciting than the Prince, but at least you can eat them and I can go to bed at 9.30pm every evening this week.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009