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

When my husband asked me if I wanted to come to Marseille to see England versus Australia I thought two things. One, I’ll see Jonny Wilkinson in the flesh and two, it will be a fun day out, although we will lose.

I first became interested in rugby at university. I had a rugby-playing boyfriend called Otley. I once went with his family to watch him play. I stood on the edge of a frozen field trying to make intelligent conversation through chattering teeth. At one stage Otley’s rather austere Yorkshire born and bred father turned to me and said: “You know absolutely nothing about this game, don’t you?”

He had a point. Then my best friend started going out with Will Carling, just as he started to play for England. He became captain and we learnt (some of) the rules as we watched him, Rob Andrew and Jeremy Guscott with increased interest.

Yesterday though was my first live World Cup game. I didn’t really know what to expect. But what amazed me was how totally passionate I became as soon as I saw our boys on the field. I cannot speak today as I am hoarse from yelling and singing Sweet Chariot. Rupert says he has never known anyone get so enthusiastic about a game of rugby. I think what happened was that there was such passion and determination on the pitch that it rubbed off on me.

I loved every minute of it. Well, apart from the minutes I was thinking we would lose, because those minutes were pure torture. I don’t think I’ve been this stressed since my finals. In fact they were a doddle in comparison. I must have lost half a stone through anxiety. There are worse ways to lose weight.

The feeling of euphoria when we won was overwhelming. And although it was only a quarter final, it was better than when Jonny (and yes, he is EVEN more gorgeous in real life, sadly he failed to notice me despite my custom-made ‘Jonny you can tackle me anytime’ T-shirt) kicked the winning kick in the last World Cup final. There is nothing like being there.

Having said that, any voice I did have left was used to cheer on the French on TV when we got home. When they scored a try Rupert and I screamed so loudly Olivia came rushing downstairs and told us to “be quiet before you wake the whole village up”.

Well done France, a brilliant effort. I’m thrilled for them. But if my voice is back by Saturday I will of course be cheering for England, even if it’s only from my local bar.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am back from a two-day whirlwind trip to London. The launch party for Ciao Bella was much more fun than Hell’s Kitchen, although that wouldn’t be too difficult. It even made it into the Peter Kay column of the Daily Mail, albeit a tiny story, right at the bottom of the page, that you need a magnifying glass to spot.

The big news this moring is that Jose Mourinho has left Chelsea. This may not matter to most of you, but for us it’s the end of an era. Rupert is an avid Chelsea fan and the children have become fans too.

“Who will take over?” I asked as I brought Rupert his morning tea.

“I will,” replied Olivia. “I’m good at football.”

In my view she has the attributes a tough manager of a world-famous football club needs. Yesterday she and her father went for a picnic on some mountains behind our house. It is a rough terrain and a steep walk. She complained on the way up but once there was delighted and suggested they spend the night. A more inhospitable mattress than the charred water-starved grass round here would be hard to find. But that didn’t worry her. In the end though she decided against staying. Why?

“We don’t have our pyjamas.”

On their way home they stopped at the local goat’s farm to get some milk. It was taking rather a long time, and Rupert started to get ratty.

“Don’t be so impatient like I am,” said Olivia.

So she is also aware of her faults. What more do you need for the job?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

My arrival home has been dominated by cricket. My stepson Hugo has been watching the test match and Leo has become very interested.

“One day you’ll play cricket for England,” Rupert said to him this morning.

“Yes, now,” said Leo.

“You can’t play cricket for England now, you’re only four,” I said.

“But I will be five,” he replied.

The thought of Leo in cricket whites is too dreamy. I have always thought it is impossible for a man to look unattractive in whites; there is something so civilized, so gentle and so very English about them. Cricket whites are right up there with surgical kit when it comes to outfits men look great in.

Even Robert Mugabe, the most uncivilized of people, recognised cricket’s qualities. “Cricket civilizes people and creates good gentlemen,” he said in an article in the Sunday Times in 1984. “I want everyone to play cricket in Zimbabwe; I want ours to be a nation of gentlemen.” Shame he didn’t follow his own creed.

This evening we are going to a cricket match. Hugo and Rupert will play. I am so excited about seeing them play and also introducing Leo to the joys of hearing leather on willow for the first time.

As we enjoy this evening, a family in Kent is mourning the loss of a father-of-two after a jeering mob made up of boys as young as ten stoned him to death while he played cricket with his son. It was a completely unprovoked attack.

Can someone please tell me what is going over there?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Summer is really here. I know this not just because it is extremely hot, but my house is full of children. In addition to the usual three I have my stepchildren Hugo and Julia here, along with Julia’s best friend Annabelle.

My three-year-old son has added a rather eccentric touch to his summer wardrobe. He insists on wearing knee-length skiing socks at all times. With his sandals. He looks like your original mad Englishman abroad but doesn’t seem to care. I have tried in vain to tell him he’ll be too hot and that he looks deranged. “I love them,” he tells me. “They’re so pretty.”

This morning my stepson Hugo started to teach him to play cricket. This is something I am all for. I don’t mind if he becomes a tennis champion or a cricket star as long as I can spend my retirement sitting in a sunny place gazing at him.

Of course he may have lost his ski-sock-wearing habit by then. They certainly won’t go with cricket whites. But at least for now I can improve on the Noel Coward quote. “Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun wearing ski socks.”

Adds a little something, don’t you think?

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.

Yesterday I had the agony of watching Tim Henman almost lose at Wimbledon again. How many years have I been putting myself through this? And today there’s more to come as he goes into the second round. I have a vast pile of ironing and will steady my nerves with green tea, hoping against hope that he’ll make it.

I can’t quite work out why it matters so much, I suppose except that I am mad about tennis and would love to see an Englishman win Wimbledon, or anything for that matter. When I was growing up I had Bjorn Borg to cheer. Then Stefan Edberg to fancy. Now there’s really no one that I support with any great passion apart from Henman. Although I admire Federer for his total brilliance.

The problem with Henman is he’s just too middle-class to win. As I watched him sipping something that looked suspiciously like home-made elderflower juice yesterday it struck me that he just lacks the drive and hunger to really make it. He never struts onto to the court like Nadal who looks like he’s about to fight a prize-winning bull. Yesterday for once he looked fired up and actually punched the air a couple of times. Sadly he looked a bit like Bertie Woorster would have done, rather silly.

I adore Tim Henman and won’t have a word said against him. He is just the kind of boy you’d want your girls to bring home and announce they were in love with. But that sort of character doesn’t always make a ruthless winner.

There is hope for the future though. Last night I spent an hour throwing a table-tennis ball to Leo who hit it back to me (and at me) with a bat. “I’m a genius,” he announced every time he hit a good shot. I have to admit he doesn’t look half-bad. And he’s left-handed which is great news.

I had a Bridget Jones moment (remember when after the first email exchange with Daniel Cleaver she fantasizes about their wedding day) where I saw myself in the VIP box at Wimbledon watching Leonardo win the title, the first Englishman to do so for several hundred years. The crowds were going crazy cheering, I was weeping, he looked splendid with his blond floppy hair and Ralph Lauren shorts. Then I got a table-tennis ball on my head.

But I am going to enroll him for the children’s Wednesday afternoon tennis sessions in Pezenas. You never know. Do you think I could bring my ironing and green tea to centre court?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

So Mother’s Day was good except that I got off at the wrong metro and then had to walk about two miles to the hotel. By the time I got there my feet hurt so I changed shoes to go walking in the Tuileries Gardens and then to the Virgin Megastore as I needed a plug for my laptop. By the time I got there my feet hurt again and so I had to hobble around looking for a shoe shop. A taxi would have been more sensible but I was determined to get some exercise.

I found a rather bling pair of torquoise flip-flops and heaved a sigh of relief as I put them on before I started my long walk back to the hotel.

Of course half-way there my feet started hurting in different places due to the bling flip-flops. At this stage my husband called me to tell me he was getting on the train from London. I told him about my feet.

“How many years have we been coming to Paris and how many times have I told you to wear sensible shoes?” he said. Really helpful.

Sensible shoes is not something I do. I never have done and really can’t imagine I ever will. Along with matching underwear I find nothing determines your mood quite as much as a pair of shoes. That is why women will spend £300 on Jimmy Choos and then not eat for several months. I remember living off tinned tomatoes on toast when I was saving to buy a flat, but show me a pair of Tods in a sale and I was a gonner. Just think about how many tins of tomatoes you can buy for the price of a pair of Tods, even in the sale.
The tennis was really annoying. First of all my feet hurt, but there were other downsides too. As my husband said when I asked him if he was enjoying it:

“Not really, it’s bloody hot, these seats feel like they were designed by Ryanair and there’s some stupid Aussie playing who can’t hit the ball over the net.”

But apart from the tennis we had a really lovely time. My sore feet and I are now headed to London while Rupert heads home to look after the babies. I am looking forward to getting there and finding some more comfortable less than sensible shoes. The only question is, how will I get from the train to Harvey Nichols without walking?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Today is Mother’s Day in France. All over the country responsible children will be taking their mothers and grandmothers out to lunch. It is the worst day of the year to try to get a table in your favourite restuarant. They are booked up weeks in advance.

I will be eating my lunch on the TGV, as I am bound for Paris. This is not something I did on purpose; I was offered tickets to the French Open for Monday. Rupert is in London and is meeting me at the hotel, he still doesn’t know where we’re going, so it’s all very exciting. I just hope his hero Federer is playing.

Less exciting was the children’s reaction when I told them I was skipping off on Mother’s Day. They were, frankly, appalled. The term ‘disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’ springs to mind. And of course I felt horrible.

But this morning before I left they showered me with presents and cards. I am wearing the necklace Bea gave me with great care as she has yet to perfect the closing mechanism.

“If you hear something falling, then look behind you,” was her advice.

Olivia gave me a wooden bracelet and said; “Any time you miss us and feel sad you can kiss this.” Sweet you might think. But she also said, as I was trying to get my skinny jeans on, “Mummy, aren’t they a bit small for you?”

My point though is this; who is Mother’s Day for? Should we as mothers spend it with our children (like we do most other days) or should it be a day we take for ourselves, to get away from our children and have some quality time with ourselves?

Rupert has been away since Wednesday and the babies have been really tough for some reason. I must have fantasised about the moment I would finally be on this TGV in perfect calm and solitude more than I have fantasised about George Clooney picking me to write his biography or Marat Safin offering to give me tennis lessons in the nude.

I have to say I come down on the side of Mother’s Day being a day when mothers should so whatever they like. And if that means getting on a train, spending an afternoon in a Paris hotel room sleeping and meeting their husbands in the evening then so be it.

Although I do miss them already and have a feeling that bracelet is going to come in handy.

Copyright:Helena Frith Powell 2007