So we’re here. The flight was good, despite Olivia’s fury that we were not “in the best bit” of the aircraft. Having prepared myself for seven hours in the air with my children by drinking a glass of Barolo at the Rhubarb Cafe in Terminal 3 I fell asleep as soon as we took off. I woke up three hours later to find the girls happily eating, Rupert ordering Whisky and Leo snoring away with his bear, Connaught.

So far so good. Then we arrived. I have to admit that so far I am not overwhelmed. Abu Dhabi seems a little like living in an oven, but possibly less attractive. Actually that may be unfair, we are in a total dump of a hotel apartment but drive ten minutes to The Corniche as it is called and things get better, greener, more elegant. Sadly there is no way we will be able to live there as apartments rarely come up for rent and when they do you need to be an investment banker to afford them.

We looked at a villa this morning on the other “new” Corniche. When they say “new”, they mean not yet constructed, so apart from a little bit where you could walk, the rest was a building site.

This is as far away from any place I would ever choose to live; there are no walks, no nature, no little side streets with designer clothes shops tucked away, no charming Italian bistros. It is a little like Florida, although the people are a lot thinner and I have to say universally charming.

But here’s my hope. I am hoping that after a long flight and being stuck in the worst part of town and getting used to living in steam room conditions (my glasses actually steam up when I go outside - it’s not a good look) that things can only get better. My hope is that in a week or even a few days I will be writing to tell you how marvellous it all is. How many friends I have made and how much I love the highways and impersonal shopping malls and how I never want to drink fine French wines again.

But for now it all feels a bit grim. Although I am encouraged by one fact I read in my guide book. There is an M&S. It could be my salvation.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It is tough being back. No calming lake, no one bringing me food every meal, no massages, no doctor monitoring my progress. But I am trying my best to keep up the good work I began. The enemy lurks around every corner in the form of alcohol, chocolate and Pringles. It is also difficult to stick to eating certain things at certain times and dining before seven pm.

Last night instead of waiting for a late dinner with the friends we are staying with I ate a bowl of cereal and then watched as they tucked into a lamb stir-fry and red wine. Was I jealous? Did I want to grab the bottle of wine? No, oddly enough I didn’t.

This morning I woke up bright and early while Rupes slept on (clearly digesting all that lamb and red wine) and tried to do some yoga but was interrupted by Leonardo jumping on my back. I am wondering how easy it will be to carry on the routine once we get to Abu Dhabi.

We leave tomorrow - the Friday flight was full so we have had to wait until Sunday. We fly overnight and land at 07.25am local time. From the airport we take a taxi to the hotel we will be living in for a month. I am thinking about writing a book about it all, starting with the flight and ending, who knows where.

Yesterday we went somewhere that was about as far removed from the Arab world as you can get. It is a shop called Abercrombie & Fitch near the Royal Academy which my husband took me to. You are greeted at the door by a man with a naked and rather impressive torso. Inside it is practically dark but light enough to see that every member of staff (male or female) probably model for Ralph Lauren in their spare time. The place is crawling with gorgeous young men asking if they can help you at all. “Well, now you mention it, you probably can,” I was tempted to reply.

Needless to say I was totally seduced by the whole scene and bought jeans, two jumpers and some little dinky vests, even though a subtle voice inside was telling me that this is really a shop for people under the age of 25.

Despite that it was an extremely anti-ageing experience and I recommend it to anyone who wonders what it is like to be in a room surrounded by young men you have only ever seen on the cover of a magazine before now. And just in case you’re wondering, it felt great. It has certainly given me something to think about on that long flight to Abu Dhabi.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Because we travel so much for work, Rupert and I have never really been on a proper family holiday until now. I can’t believe how nice it is. This is my routine: I get up, I do some writing (I am working on a novel), I do half an hour of yogo (as Leo calls it). Then Rupert and I go down to our ‘brygga’ or pontoon where we swim out around a boat called My Lady III, a mast-less sailing boat who is in more or less the same position every day.

We get back and have breakfast, then maybe play tennis, or read (I am reading Diana Athill’s Stet - an editor’s life, Rupert is reading The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers), go to ICA the supermarket and buy strange Swedish food, listen to Mamma Mia!, go for a walk, check my amazon rating (2833 since you ask) go to a lake etc etc. In the evenings we often have a sauna, followed by a beer and dill-flavoured crisps.

We leave on Saturday and I have been grumpy all day at the thought of going. I am off to Austria for another book project (all will be revealed once I have the contract) and Rupes and the children stay in England with friends until we head to Abu Dhabi and our air-conditioned office.

But the good news is that, all being well, next year someone will actually pay us to come to Sweden and go swimming - one of the upsides of a job is paid holiday. I am already planning how to spend it. I think we might just come back here and do the same thing we did this year…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We have embarked on the next leg of our European tour. As I write I am looking out over silver birches, pretty red wooden houses and the sea in the distance. We are in Sweden in our rented house in the Stockholm archipelago. As we were settling in here last night, another family was settling into Sainte Cecile. I am getting quite used to this nomadic lifestyle (probably just as well as we’re moving to the desert).

London was great. Rupert’s book launch went very well; Stanford’s book shop sold lots of copies, his charming publisher made a lovely speech and lots of friends and family came. Leonardo enjoyed himself, playing cricket with Hugo and Julia across the shop with rubber balls depicting the world. Surrounded as I was by maps I finally worked out where Abu Dhabi is. Great neighbours….

But back to Leo. It was a little like I imagine travelling with George Clooney must be like. Every place we went in to everyone stopped what they were doing to talk to him and fuss over him. He was at his most charming. Every evening at the Connaught he would say goodnight to every member of staff and say “see you in the morning”. He even managed to get a free breakfast at Pret a Manger, something I have not achieved in 15 years of going there.

But here in Sweden sadly he looks just like thousands of other little blond boys so he may have to get used to a little less attention. And start paying for his own breakfast.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The life of a goldfish is not an interesting one, even if you happen to be Olivia’s goldfish and more perky than most. But Sushi Sam, as he is called, has now discovered a whole new world.

Deciding what to do with the animals was one of the most difficult things about the Abu Dhabi move. The day I tried to put Wolfie into kennels he (predictably and cleverly) vanished. When Rupert went back recently he was nowhere to be seen. If I know him, he’s wandered off to Mme Fontenon’s up the road where he is always welcome. Max is still at the house and fiercely possesive of his domain as our tenants saw when a stray dog arrived and Max chased him off the terrace. Whoever ends up renting Sainte Cecile will have to look after him, that’s just part of the deal.

Sushi came to the Savoie. Our friends had told us about a cattle trough close to them where another goldfish lives. It is a constant temperature, full of good things to eat and has a nice view over the hills. We deposited Sushi Sam there rather anxiously. The other fish is at least three times as large as him. I was worried the change of water would kill him instantly and he would float slowly to the surface and the children would cry for days.

Sushi swam around for a bit then hid. We left him to it. Later that day we went back to check on him. He and his new best friend, now named Sausage John by the children, were racing up and down the trough. As soon as Sushi spotted us he hid, probably worried we were going to put him back in his goldfish bowl.

He has been there for almost three weeks now and we get daily reports from Norrie and Mary; he seems perkier than ever and we may even find that Sushi Sam is actually Sushi Samantha and she and Sausage John start a family.

We are in Surrey, staying with our friend Jonathan. Today we take Leo to London (the girls are both in Italy) and tomorrow night is the launch party for Rupert’s new book; Take me to the Source - In search of water. We didn’t need to look far for water last night, I haven’t seen so much since I went swimming on Tuesday, but this morning the sun is almost shining, as I’m sure it is on Sushi Sam too.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Remind me to avoid Geneva airport in the future. Coming back from a meeting about an exciting new book deal in London (which I will tell you all about once it is signed) I flew into the scene of my handbag abduction episode. When I parked that morning (at 6am so I was a little bleary-eyed) I opted for the unlimited car park. I carefully wrote down Red 17 so that I would be able to find my car again.

I trudge towards the car park in my pink heels which after a day in London are hurting like hell. It is odd, I think to myself, that when I arrived the car park seemed so close, and now it seems so far away. I finally get there, heave a hugh sigh of relief and put the ticket in the machine. “Your ticket is not valid in this car park” it tells me. I look at my ticket. Unlimited Car Park number 1 it says. I am in unlimited car park number 51. This could explain it.

So I trudge back, swearing at my own idiocy, unaware that this episode is totally minor compared with the self-inflicted suffering I am about to come up with.

It is now ten to nine. I landed at 8.20 pm. I have an hour and a half drive ahead of me. The children are waiting up to say goodnight. I am about to throw my shoes away they hurt so much. To say I am keen to get home is an understatement.

I finally get back to the right car park and put my ticket in. It won’t let me pay with a card and I root around my newly-found handbag for any Swiss francs in a total blind panic before I realise the machine takes euros. Phew. I find Red 17 without any further mishaps and sink thankfully into my car. I set Titty (the GPS navigator) to my beloved Blanchiniere and plug in my phone. Ready to go!

Now all I need is the car parking ticket. It has vanished. Much like my handbag days before, it has been abducted. I literally turn everything upside down. I even crawl under the car, cursing and shouting at myself. I am in total disbelief. It HAS to be here. But it’s not. So I look for the office of the car park, there is none. I decide to drive to the exit and explain what has happened.

But when I get there and the man asks me where my ticket is I am just too ashamed to tell the truth, to tell him (even if he is hidden inside a machine) that I have no idea, that somewhere between paying for it and getting to my car I lost it. He’d think I am a fool, which I am, but why should he know that? So I lie. I cross my fingers and tell him the machine ate it. I get very Italian and shout about the machine. And the fact that my handbag was stolen last time I was here, and that I just WANT TO GO HOME. Eventually he releases me. I blow kisses to the invisible man in the machine and head for the motorway.

At home the children are asleep but Rupert is waiting with candles and a glass of red wine. I am so relieved to be there I almost weep. On Wednesday we go back to Geneva Airport to drop Bea off. I think I might stay in the car.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

By 9am this morning as I was on the phone to the British Consulate in Lyon the Swiss police had left a message for me at home to say that my bag and the passports had been found at a railway station. Amazing. It is safe at the lost and found in Geneva. The charming man on the phone told me there was no cash left in it (funny that) but that the wallet was there along with some other personal belongings.

So when I go to collect it next week I will see if this is a literary thief (in which case the pink Montegrappa and pink Moleskin will have gone), a thief who cares about his or her hair (evidenced by missing Mason & Pearson brush, also pink), a pouting thief (my beloved lip glosses, mainly pink) or a myopic thief (my sunglasses).

I am hoping this thief was just after cash, which seems to be the case as we already know he or she has rejected my beautiful handbag and rather smart wallet.

Or maybe he or she just doesn’t like pink. In which case they will have left my passport in its gorgeous pink Smythson leather cover. Talking of which the most amazing thing about this whole mishap apart from the reappearance of the handbag has been finding out just how difficult it is to get a replacement passport, not to mention expensive. Bea would have had to miss out on her flight to Italy, and we would probably have ended up not going to Sweden in July. Despite the fact that I have scans of all the passports and a police statement.

So you are the victim of a crime and then made to suffer and feel like a criminal. Good work from her majesty’s service consular services. Maybe the Swiss should run them?
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It was all going swimmingly. We’d had lunch in Geneva, got soaked under the fountain on the lake (it was a boiling hot day) and got to the airport in good time to drop Olivia off for her flight to Italy where she is going to stay with my mother for three weeks.

“Watch out for pickpockets,” read a sign as we walked in. I warned Olivia to keep a close eye on her new Nintendo DS, I know she would be heartbroken if she lost it.
After check-in we went upstairs for a coffee. We sat down and I started to write out a list of people Olivia needs to write thank you letters to for her birthday presents. Suddenly I felt something like a chill wind behind me and it was gone…..

My beautiful handbag. I stood up and shouted, I ran around looking feverishly for some man with a green Birkin bag, the Swiss around went about their business calmly, probably assuming I was a lunatic.

If only we hadn’t gone to that cafe, if only I had put all our passports in the glove compartment as I’d meant to, if only I’d been using my Montegrappa pen instead of leaving it “safely” in my bag. And the worst of it is my nine lip-glosses and Gucci prescription sunglasses. I hope the little shit who stole my bag puts them on and falls in Lake Geneva.
But you know what, despite it all, all I could think of as I gave the police my statement was ‘thank God it wasn’t one of the children’. Olivia is on her way to Rome and the other two are asleep in the back.

“I’m sorry you lost your handbag and your beautiful pink pen,” said Bea before she fell asleep. “But at least you have your phone and your laptop.”
And I have them. And Rupes. And my Jerome Gruet hat (I’m not daft enough to put that in my handbag) and an excuse to buy a new handbag, obviously.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It is not often that reality turns out to be better than one’s fantasy. For example those red croc stilettos from Fratelli Rossetti are great, but they have yet to change my life. And a cream cake rarely tastes as good as it looks. But here I am, in the Savoie, in a cottage called La Clementine and I couldn’t be more chuffed.

I have had my eye on this little place for a couple of years. It is close to our friend’s Norrie and Mary’s house. It sits in the dip of a valley, surrounded by rolling hills and mountains. It is made of stone and wood and extremely simple.

“What if it’s not as lovely as you imagined inside?” asked Rupert as we drove towards it. There is no pool, the bathroom is tiny (I have had to spread my three suitcases of products around the house) and the kitchen is the size of our bathroom at home. Compared with many of the luxury places I have stayed on our travels (thanks to being a journalist, there has to be some upside) you could describe it as spartan. But I totally love it. Who needs all that marble and people running around after you anyway? This is the most magical place I have ever stayed in. It just feels like home, exactly what we need now that we’re homeless until we get to Abu Dhabi. Come to think if it, we’re homeless once we get there as well. Have you tried to rent an apartment in downtown Abu Dhabi recently? Well, don’t. It’s a nightmare, worse than London and more expensive.

We arrived here yesterday afternoon after almost 10 days of travelling. We unpacked the car and as I write the coffee machine is warming up and my yoga mat (much missed during our trip as it was hidden in the top box of the car, which by the way has split under the strain of all my creams) lies on the floor ready for me to do sun-saltues with a mountain view.
The children have all run up to Norrie and Mary’s for their morning “flying biscuits” ritual and in the distance I can hear farmyard sounds. I will shut up now as I run the risk of sounding like one of those dreary people one wants to murder because they’re always droning on about how marvellous life is. But right now, it is.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I had many visions of where I would spend my 10th wedding anniversary: Le Byblos in St Tropez, Hotel de Toiras on the Ile de Re, Hotel Costes in Paris, some ritzy restaurant in London, a beach in the Caribbean, a luxury spa on Lake Geneva. After all, ten years of marriage is something to be celebrated. Just think, 10 years ago today I was squeezing myself into my wedding dress and worrying about where in the seating plan to put my father (immaterial as it turned out, he stormed off before it all happened).

So where am I? A McDonald’s on some nameless roundabout 10 kilometres from the Ile d’Oleron, our next island stop.

I have always refused to go to McDonald’s. I hate McDonald’s. It’s as far away from the kind of place I would like to spend any time as a public loo. (As a child I was famous for refusing to go to public loos, which made travelling with me anywhere tricky). And yet I am here, sitting at a table, drinking a perrier while all around me people stuff their faces with burgers.

And yet….it’s not that bad. I can’t smell the burgers (or the people), the table is wooden and they have HIGH SPEED FREE WIFI. This may not seem as exciting as a massage in a luxury spa but believe me, after several days on remote islands, it is amazing.

But I don’t think we’ll stay for lunch.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008