One of the side-effects of moving to Abu Dhabi, apart from learning to pole dance and belly dance, is meeting interesting people and going to glittering events. It is true that in Gabian the most glittering event was watching Italy beat France in the football world cup with a few locals who seemed to care less than we did. I often wondered if we had hidden ourselves in the depth of the countryside a little too early.

All that has changed. As I write a stunning brown sequined gown lies in my bedroom ready for a reception this evening in honour of the King of Sweden. It is backless and off the shoulder, cut on the bias. I hope the king likes it. I have been told I might be able to interview him.

I have never met a royal, at least not knowingly. The closest I got was Margaret Thatcher and only because she had by then adopted the royal “we”. I am intrigued as to what he will be like. I know from Wikipedia that his father died when he was nine months old but that he wasn’t told about it until he was seven. Tragic and almost comic; you can imagine questions along the lines of “er, whatever happened to that bloke who used to have breakfast with us?”

I am keen to ask him what it’s really like to be royal. Is it as much fun as I think it could be; sleeping in silk sheets and having anything you want. Or does he feel like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday and long to escape? I wonder where he would go in Abu Dhabi - Marina Mall perhaps? There’s an IKEA there, we might find him asleep on one of the sofa beds.

 I suspect it really isn’t that much fun. It must be tiresome never being alone, always having someone around you to pick things up or tell you what your next meeting is. Meanwhile I am very much looking forward to slipping into my full-length glittering dress, it makes me feel like I’m going to the Oscars. Maybe if I’d worn it to the World Cup final the Gabian villagers would have perked up a bit. I may go back and try it at the annual school party.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I dropped out of school aged 16 and got on a bus to London from Stockholm with my friend Suzanna I had one burning ambition. I wish I could say that I was heading to London with a fervent desire to free Tibet or even get a degree but no, I wanted to meet John Taylor. Or maybe Nick Rhodes, but one or the other.

For those of you who are too young to remember them, they were (and are) members of the band Duran Duran. They had a huge amount of hits in the 1980s like Save a Prayer and Girls on Film. They were ‘new romantics’, they followed in Byron’s footsteps, at least when it came to flouncy shirts.

So I packed my flouncy shirt (it was black with lots of ruffles) and headed off with this burning and most worthy ambition. Although I did meet quite a few pop stars (I even sang backing vocals on a Steve Strange single with my friend Floss) I never met any of the members of Duran Duran.

I am pleased to report that is all about to change. Tonight Rupert and I are invited to a private event where they will be performing. Rupert says he is coming along purely to restrain me. I am wondering if they will still be wearing silly shirts and what they will look like; middle aged? gorgeous?

Whatever else, it’s a great excuse to party, dance and wear a flouncy shirt. As the song goes; don’t say a prayer for me now, save it till the morning after….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am back at my office at the Kempinski, gazing at the ski slope. The skiing the other day began badly. We all got to the top of the slope and the children refused to go down it.

“I’ve forgotten how to ski,” declared Olivia.

“How do we get down?” asked Leo.

“I’m scared,” wept Bea.

We tried everything but in the end Rupert had to take them down, one by one. Then we hit the nursery slope, where I am at my happiest. After 20 minutes of patient training by Rupert the girls were yet again ready for world domination (their natural state). They demanded to go up to the top and asked me to lead them down. Soon they were overtaking me. Leo had a lesson and came out glowing.

“I LOVED it,” he said, his cheeks all red from the cold. “I went so so so fast.”

I am doing some work in my new office while I wait for them to arrive for another skiing session. This work includes looking at handbags in Harvey Nichols and all the designer shops in the mall to compare them with fake ones I saw last night. I am writing an article about fake versus real (I’d love to hear your opinion on this). I am also writing a piece about belly dancing.

As Muriel was told in that classic film, Muriel’s Wedding, “you’ve got to find your level”. I think I have found mine and I’m loving it. I may even get used to the skiing soon, one advantage of there being a total of two slopes.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I was a teenager I had a friend who owned a Porsche. It was white, sporty and made a hell of a noise. A nice noise though. A sort of deep sexy roar. I vowed that one day I would have one.

I don’t know if it’s being part-Italian, but I do like a fast car. Not that I like going fast, that terrifies me, but I just like the roar of an engine and the knowledge that there is all that power there, should I ever need it.

The children have picked up on this. Every time we see a Ferrari or a Porsche they yell “Ferrari” or “Porsche”. Leo is the best at it. The other day he even recognised the Porsche logo on a flag above a garage.

When Rupert first told some friends about our plans to move to Abu Dhabi they said “you’ll be able to buy a really cheap second-hand Porsche. They throw them away there”. Finally my dream was going to become reality I thought. Obviously now I have three children the sporty convertible is not an option, it would have to be the four-wheel drive. I started fantasising about abandoned Porsches littering the roads with notes stuck on their windscreens reading ‘please look after this car.’

This has not happened, although we did see one brand new BMW for sale at a knock-down price. The explanation? “Unwanted gift”, read the ad. How could you not WANT a brand new BMW?!?

Every time we see a Porsche Cayenne (the four-wheel drive) Leo shouts “there’s the Porsche we want.” This happens every ten minutes, because here they seem to be the car to have. They are even more ubiquitous than the Swedish flag in Sweden.

He has even decided that we need the sporty one as well. “The good thing about Porsches,” he told me very seriously yesterday, “is that you can get a big one and a little one.” Now there’s an idea which would send our bank manager to an early grave.

Clearly it’s unrealistic. We can get a perfectly decent car for less than a third of the price of the Porsche and we’re here to consolidate, not race around the Corniche pretending to be as rich as everyone else clearly is.

But if there was ever a time when we just maybe could do it, it’s now. They really are cheap. Well, cheaper than at home. And so lovely. And as the advertisement rather cleverly says: “You have to ask yourself. Do you want a car, or do you want a Porsche?”

We all know what Leo wants.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So the international conspiracy to keep me awake has now reached ridiculous proportions. I leave the hotel room next to the mosque to move into my friend Amanda’s flat while she is away. But now instead of the mosque I have the combination of four cats and the insomniacs on the 9th floor to keep me entertained.

I have realised that the only sleep I can hope for is before 1.30 am, when cats and insomniacs are at their most active. This has been going on for days. This morning at 3 I finally decide to write a note, not to the cats, to the insomniacs. In said note I ask them politely if they could perhaps be a little more considerate as they keep waking the children up (total lie of course, they have slept remarkably well). I decide to deliver the note immediately. Problem is I am wearing a pink and yellow nightie and all my clothes are in Amanda’s bedroom and I don’t want to risk waking the babes. So I find a raincoat, put that on and take the lift up to the 9th floor.

It does occur to me en route that if anyone sees me barefoot, in a nightie and a raincoat carrying a note written in pink at 3am, they might well call the men in white coats. But at least at the asylum in my sound-proof cell I would get a good night’s sleep.

Meanwhile I tried to phone the sheikh’s property man as arranged, about 100 times. His phone was switched off. It doesn’t look like my happy ever after is happening. But right now I’d be content with a few hours sleep.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Yes, it’s official, I am a style guru. Not only did a member of the Tatler Magazine staff try to steal my red fake croc handbag at my book launch, but I am now being PAID to talk about trends and what motivates women to stay thin, pretty, fashionable etc.

I had an email from a lady at a big advertising agency in New York who had read the US edition of Two Lipsticks inviting me to a dinner discussion in Paris. “As someone who not only spots trends but sets them as well, we are hoping to tap into your insight”.

As well they might. At the time I was reading the email I was in the process of setting a trend I expect you all to follow. I was sitting in my office, naked, on a pink towel, waiting for my fake tan to dry. How trendy is that?

The problem though with being labelled a trend-spotter and setter is that I now have a reputation to live up to. What the hell do I wear to this event? I don’t want the assembled trendies to out-trend me. Oh the pressure. At least I have a new Chanel lip-gloss, bought for me on mother’s day by Rupert.

If all else fails I can wear that and the fake tan and emulate the original imperial fashionista.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am lying on a bed, eating almonds, covered in fake tan, reading Tatler. The last time I did this I was child-free and about 19.

I am having an evening in after an exhausting day, which started with breakfast with the Features Director of Red Magazine and ended with a massage from Nari, who is based near Notting Hill and claims to give the best massage in the world.

Not having tried them all, I can’t say he’s right, but he is extremely good. He has incredibly soft but strong hands which he uses to expertly pummel your body. The treatment ends with a head massage which apparently children in India are given as a matter of course, their mothers tell them it makes them brainy.

I may not be any brainier, but instead of feeling exhausted after a glass of champagne and two glasses of delicious (English) rose at a lunch with a Daily Mail editor I skipped home, relaxed and invigorated. Actually Nari (bless him) insisted on driving me home (a service he doesn’t offer to all his clients but you might get lucky, check him out at www.thismassageworks.co.uk).

Despite my hectic schedule I have had time to go to M&S four times and can confirm that it’s as blissful as ever. The threading at Harvey Nichols went well and pink seems to be the colour to be seen in, which is lucky for born-again teenagers like me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

In order to break into journalism in England I was forced to become a financial journalist on leaving university. This was not, as you can imagine, my natural environment. I worked for the gripping title ‘Trade Finance Magazine’ which shortly after I joined became ‘Project and Trade Finance Magazine’. You can imagine my relief. I am still unsure of the difference between the two.

Anyway, for ten years I struggled on, despite an inauspicious start. I got back from my first ever meeting to find my editor fielding a call from the person I had interviewed who had called to ask her why she had sent “this bimbo who knows less than nothing about trade finance” to interview him.

Finally I gave up journalism altogether, only to reinvent myself as the Sunday Times French Mistress and lifestyle journalist years later.

I have now broken into French journalism which is extremely exciting. Barring the obvious problem that I am unable to write French I think it will go swimmingly. I am a columnist (which is rather like going straight in at number one) for a magazine called Santé.

My first column is Me and my foot cream. I feel I have finally found my level….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It was the Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said that ‘no man can step into the same river twice, for fresh waters are ever flowing in upon you’. I had hoped that when Carla showed up for the state visit to England that she might have brought a bit of fresh water with her.

Sadly not. One commentator observed that she looked like a mixture betweeb Jackie Kennedy and a nun. I am all for Jackie Kennedy. Style icons like her are to be adored and admired. But the fact is that our dear tutti fruity Carla is about as far removed from her as she is to a nun, and yet she is trying to be her. Heraclitus would not approve.

I can see that for her this was a safe option. Show up looking demure and like Jackie - that’s what people expect from a First Lady. They do indeed. Unless that particular First Lady has a reputation for sleeping with rock stars and conducting interviews topless (I promise you, she did, I read the article, the (male) journalist had to keep trying not to look at her tits and bury his head in his notebook).

What I was hoping from tutti fruity Carla was something with a little flair, a touch of the frivolous, the fun, the daring. Why show up looking like a frigid matron when the whole world knows you’re anything but?

Who knows, she could have created a style all her own, that future first ladies and women all over the world would have emulated.

And another thing. How long before she realises that going on tour with Mick was much more fun than state visits to drafty old castles?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

“Keep it light-hearted,” the producer tells me. “We’ve got a big feature on breast cancer so this item needs to be funny.”

The subject of my discussion on Woman’s Hour today is a new book written by a Dutch woman called Dutch women don’t get depressed. By the end of it, I am. I try a whole host of jokes, like Dutch men being so jolly despite bossy, scruffy women due to high drug intake and French women refusing to wear clogs (rarely in fashion). They all fall on deaf (Dutch) ears. Not even a snigger. The woman has no sense of humour whatsoever.

To make matters worse I get back home to a seriously POISONOUS comment on my blog about my performance. I am apparently snide, xenophobic and smug. And that’s on a good day. “I suppose, however, its all that can be expected from a woman who writes books with such ridiculous titles like ‘Two Lipsticks and a Lover’,” writes the rather bitter Abigail. (Rather smugly I notice she can’t spell it’s).

But I am safe. As I lie down for an afternoon sleep with my ill daughter (I am also ill having been out until 2am which only happens about once a decade, why did it have to happen last night?) she comforts me. “Don’t worry about that silly woman mummy,” she says. “Just go to sleep and pretend like it didn’t happen. I’ll look after you And I’ve got Max and Wolfie on my team.” Abigail beware.

PS By popular demand, here is the ghastly comment, posted on the About Helena section and also emailed to me just in case I missed it:

Abigail Jones

I just listened to a program on Radio 4 Women’s Hour on which you made an appearance - a discussion of Ellen de Bruin’s book ‘Dutch Women Don’t Get Depresssed’ and its sentiment. It is, of course (as de Bruin readily admitted) another example of a ready habit that many people have to stereotype nationalities in a wildly uninformed manner. I can’t say I’m very interested in buying the book or discussing such silly stereotypes, but de Bruin seemed like a pleasant enough woman.
Despite the fact that we were listening a discussion on de Bruin’s book, however, it was your drawling sarcastic comments and performance that really stood out. And not, I assure you, in a positive way. You seem to have an unpleasant obsesion with perpetrating such mindless, crude stereotypes, and some of your responses verged on xenophobic. The one about how Dutch people were happy because they smoked drugs? Embarassing. As for your claim about how women are happier when they believe they look better? I can only judge from the ridiculously smug picture you posted of yourself on this page that you at least are wholly believing that you look ‘good’? Your snappy tone and silly jibes on Woman’s Hour, however, was not the behaviour of a happy woman.
I suppose, however, its all that can be expected from a woman who writes books with such ridiculous titles like ‘Two Lipsticks and a Lover’

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007