It’s that time of year again, Wimbledon time, which means I get to put pictures of Marat Safin on my blog, oh joy! Last night he played an incredible match - we were all literally on the edge of our seats. Except Bea who declared the whole thing “boring” and Safin “ugly”. He was playing an Italian I had never heard of called Seppi and we witnessed some of the best tennis I have ever seen. They went on until after 9pm, I can’t imagine how they could see anything.

This year for the first time ever women are being paid the same as men at Wimbledon. This strikes me as hugely unfair. They don’t do as much work. They play three sets, not five, and they’re simply not as entertaining or as good as the men. I totally support their demands to be treated as equals, but being paid the same to play less is not equal.

Back to the bag saga - I am pleased to report that it was stolen by a thief with appallingly bad taste. My gorgeous Montegrappa is safe, as is my collection of Chanel and Laura Mercier lip glosses bar one, which I assume they dropped. They also left my wallet, my Smythson passport cover (with passport inside) and my credit cards, now even more useless than they were before as they’ve all been cancelled.

The only thing missing was the cash and my sunglasses. Imagine the depression when I had to go and buy another pair…..I am now the proud owner of the latest “tendance” as they call it here, a pair of Tom Ford’s which are extremely Jackie O and rather more chic than my missing ones. Every cloud, eh?

But I shall be removing them briefly to get a good look at Safin on Monday.

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

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

I was on a yoga mat in my M&S pink polka-dot underwear when the police arrived. I am genetically pre-disposed to panic as soon as I see a policeman. I spent my childhood watching my mother shout ‘help’ every time one came anywhere near us, even if he was just innocently arresting someone else.

But these policemen were at my door in full uniform and carrying guns. Things did not look promising.

“Is zis your dog?” asked one of them, although not of course in an Inspector Clouseau accent, because he was speaking French. But you get the idea. “E ‘as murdered a lamb.”

“Wolfie doesn’t eat lamb,” I was tempted to respond but thought better of it. “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked.

“I sink so,” said the other inspector (why they need to send two policemen round to see a lamb-murdering suspect I don’t understand). “E is all wet, he ‘as washed all the traces of blood away.”

Right - so Wolfie thought ‘yum that was jolly good but if mummy sees me covered in blood she’ll get suspicious, I’d better have a bath.’ Yep, I wondered where my lavender bath oil had got to.

Wolfie watched us with an air of amusement throughout the conversation and didn’t object to the mug-shots they took of him to show the owner of the dead lamb.

“We’ll call you when we have a positive identification,” they said and drove off.

Ten minutes later another car arrived. It’s bloody hard to get any yoga done round here. This time it was the owner of said deceased lamb.

“Are you the owner of an Alsatian?”

“Allegedly, ” I replied, and added “but I don’t think he murdered your lamb, he was here all morning and anyway he’s not very aggressive.”

“Where is he? I want to see him,” he demanded. I called Wolfie thinking this might be the last time I ever saw him alive and wondering what sort of carpet he might make.

“It’s not him,” said the man, suddenly becoming quite civil and even patting Wolfie.

So I am now on my yoga mat once more, breathing heavily with relief. I am addicted to yoga after a two-day dry-run for our Renew Retreat which I completed this morning. I feel marvellous after just two days and can’t wait to see how I good I feel after the full weekend in May. Let’s just hope we don’t have as many men in uniform showing up, unless of course they’re willing to give us a massage.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

One of the most common complaints I hear from harassed housewifes and mothers is that they don’t have the time to do any exercise because they are with the children all day. I have great news. A young child is the perfect exercise tool. I present you with, at absolutely no charge or membership fee, my exclusive Leonardo workout.

It began like this. His teacher was ill so he had to come home from school. First he got into his Spiderman pyjamas and then he was ready for action. For forty-five minutes we jumped up and down on the trampoline (great leg and buttock workout). Then he wanted me to push him on the swings (great arm work-out). This was followed by a game where I was his horse (perfect opportunity to do some press-ups with him on my back, my arms ached after two). Then we had the ‘throw me on the sofa four hundred times while I pretend to fly’ game, another amazing arm and shoulder workout. After this you might think he’d be ready for a DVD (I know I was) but no - it was time for a bike ride.

As he has only just mastered riding a bike this entails me running alongside him just in case I have to catch him (great cardio, who needs a treadmill?) The only thing we didn’t cover was abs but I have since developed a technique whereby Leonardo sits on my legs counting to one hundred as I heave myself up from the floor to be greeted by his smiling face.

So there you have it. Those of you with more than one child at home will be able to enjoy the workout even more as you repeat it with each child. It might get a tad dull, but just think how toned you will be. And in plenty of time for the beach.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The Australian Open is on at the moment and every morning I switch on the television to be greeted with images of French players battling it out down under. And every morning I ask the same question: Why are there no British players playing?

There was one, Andy Murray, who was knocked out in the first round. But the French seem to have a never-ending supply. This seems a bit rum, after all we invented the game, didn’t we?

Up to a point. In the 19th century the English invented lawn tennis, but it was based on Real Tennis which had been played in France since the 12th Century. In fact the word tennis comes from the French tenez meaning get it in the context of Real Tennis.

One of the criticisms levelled at the French educational system is that they don’t do enough sport or art. This may be true. But we have Wednesdays off to do all that and on Wednesdays my children all trot off to Pezenas Tennis Club where they have tennis coaching with other children.

The fact is they may not do tennis at school but it is made very easy to do it outside of school and every village, no matter how small, has a tennis court.

I would love to see one of my children represent England in the Australian Open one day and I know where they should be brought up if they’re to stand a chance.

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

As I sat reading my story in the Daily Telegraph this morning (see www.telegraph.co.uk) and seeing my book plugged at the end it occurred to me that humans are essentially dissatisfied creatures.

“I have just realised how lucky we are,” I said to Rupert. “We could have moved here and ended up in total oblivion.”

Five years ago a big spread in the Telegraph and a book published by the Random House Group was all I could dream about. Now that I have all that of course I want the Booker prize and a weekly column in most, if not all, newspapers. As well as my own TV show.

Is this a good or a bad thing? Is constant striving what creates progress? Even if it makes us dissatisfied as well? I think it probably is a good thing. If Shakespeare had just thought ‘oh well, I’ve written a couple of plays now and I think I’ll retire’ the world would be a less interesting place. Leonardo da Vinci could justifiably have stopped half-way through his career and still achieved more than most of the rest of the world put together.

I am not in any way comparing myself to those two greats, but what I am saying is that even if ambition can make you seem spoiled at times I think it’s fundamentally useful.

Sometimes though, it would be nice to be just content. On Sunday we took all the children to a park. Leo was with his best friend Louis. He was carrying a rugby ball, Louis was carrying a football. The park was full of slides and swings.

“Oh look Louis!” gasped Leo. “We’ve got everything what we need.”

“Yes Leo,” smiled Louis. “We have.”

At times it is useful to put ambition aside and realise how lucky you are. Especially now that England are in the final of the rugby world cup. But of course I now want them to win. By a large margin. And there was a time I would have been grateful just to beat the Aussies. See what I mean?

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