Downton Abbey

Posted on March 21, 2012 by Helena

I have the perfect answer to getting through an eight-hour flight in economy. Watch seven hours of Downton Abbey. I have been desperate to see it ever since all my friends in England first mentioned it and raved about it endlessly and lost the will to live when the first season was over. And where better to do so than while stuck in an uncomfortable seat with the great unwashed coughing and spluttering and snoring all around me.

With my headphones on I was able to immerse myself totally in the world of Downton. And actually feel like I was doing something useful at the same time, because there is nothing worse than that all your friends endlessly telling you what an amazing series you are missing and being utterly horrified to hear you are not already hooked.

To make matters even better, once we arrived in England, Bea and I went to a place that is not unlike Downton Abbey. We were staying with friends at Bramham Park in Yorkshire for my lovely godson Freddie’s confirmation. In fact the creator of Downton Julian Fellowes had visited Bramham with a view to making it the location for the servant’s quarters. Bloody cheek.

Bea and I had a magical time. I have not been to Bramham for many years, but used to go there a lot. During Durham University days and after we had many wonderful weekends there. Julia, my stepdaughter, learned to ride a bike on the lawn in front of the house. It is not just the beauty and elegance of the house that is so special, but the relaxed and happy atmosphere that always makes you feel instantly welcome and ready for fun.

We were very sad to leave after four sunny, fun, happy days. At the check-in queue I remembered that Etihad only has Season One of Downton. Then a miracle. “Half-price upgrades available,” a stewardess walked up and down the check-in line shouting. I quickly texted Rupert. “Go for it,” he replied. “You both deserve it.” “Do you think someone has stolen his phone?” I asked Bea. “Who cares?” she said.

We did go for it, and it was marvellous. So there’s my other top tip for getting through an economy flight: upgrade to business.

Secret sex and the city….

Posted on April 24, 2009 by Helena

Olivia and I are addicted to Brothers & Sisters. We lie on my bed under the blanket and watch it on a portable DVD player. We have watched Grey’s Anatomy together, along with the first season of Desperate Housewives, before I decided it was too grown-up for her.

One thing I have never allowed the girls to watch is Sex and the City. My box set is on top of the cupboard, hidden away. I love Sex and the City or SATC as we call it. I love the glamour, the intrigue, the fashion, the plots. And I am mad about Mr Big. On Wednesday night I went out with three girlfriends. We discussed boyfriends, affairs, husbands, shoes – all the usual.

“We’re so SATC,” said one of my friends.

Little did I imagine that while I was out acting SATC, my daughters were at home watching it.

Yesterday the secret came out. We were in the car when Bea pulled a pouty face and said “this is what Samantha does.”

Immediately I knew. It was like one of those moments when suddenly everything makes sense. They tried to deny it but there was no going back. So we started to discuss it.
“Did you see the bit where Carrie breaks up with Mr Big?” asked Olivia.

“What are crabs?” asked Bea.

I think it may be time to buy a safe.

Oscar night

Posted on February 24, 2009 by Helena

There was an Oscar party last night at the Intercontinental Hotel here in Abu Dhabi. Three friends and I decided to go, mainly because the dress code was “red carpet” and I can resist no excuse to wear my full-length sequinned dress which now looks even more glam, paired as it is with my Valentine’s present from Rupert; a purple cashmere fur-lined mini-cape.

“I’m going to an Oscars party, ” I told the children. Leo started crying.

“Why are you going to Oscar’s party? Why aren’t I invited? He’s MY friend,” he sobbed.

I calmed him down and set off to meet the girls. It started well, with pink champagne, flash-photography and canapes. Then it seems the whole room took up smoking. Then David Hasselhoff arrived. Could things get any worse?

“I can’t breathe,” I texted Rupert.

“I’m on the terrace drinking wine,” he texted back. It sounded like a much better option. I headed home, joined him on the terrace and watched the Oscars on YouTube in bed in a smoke-free environment.

Every eight seconds

Posted on April 21, 2008 by Helena

MrDreamy I have a friend of a friend who is on the UK soap Coronation Street. He told her an amazing fact the other day which is that the scriptwriters are forced to come up with something exciting every eight seconds in order to prevent people from switching channels.

Every eight seconds….can you imagine if life was like that? No sooner have you given birth when your brother-in-law announces he’s running off with his best (male) friend and your mother tells you that you are in fact the product of a liaison she once had with a Brazilian opera singer and not your father who thinks Rigoletto is a pasta dish.

McSteamy Anyway, as you may know, the favoured soap around here is Grey’s Anatomy. I have the good fortune to have a very technically-minded friend who downloaded the whole of the fourth series for me. Yesterday was a sad day. Olivia and I watched the final episode. I don’t even think they’ve made a fifth series yet and am wondering how on earth to get through the ironing during the coming months.

My friend who downloaded the series says you can tell a lot about a woman by asking her if she prefers McDreamy or McSteamy.

As long as either or both of them are on every eight seconds, I’m happy. So what does that say about me?

To Hell in High Heels

Posted on April 11, 2008 by Helena

It really was to hell in high heels when I finally left the launch party wearing my gorgeous red snakeskin Fratelli Rossetti stilettos. After three days of tottering around London in high heels there is not a part of my feet that doesn’t hurt. But it was all worth it.

Yesterday was pretty perfect. It started with TV, then went on to shopping, a massage and a sleep, and ended with a lovely party. Actually it ended for me after the party when I went to BBC London to talk about the book. Then back to the most comfortable bed in town at The Berkeley Hotel.

I am now on the Eurostar heading back home, pondering the high and lowlights of the trip. Highlights are: Getting to the giddy heights of number 21 in the Amazon ratings with To Hell; meeting a woman who interviewed George Clooney (and since you ask, yes, he was everything you could possibly hope, dream and wish for and more); The suite at the Berkeley Hotel with everything you could ever want in a room, including a TV you can watch from the bath and wardrobes that light up as you walk towards them; wandering around London in the sunshine (yes, it was sunny for FOUR days, I bet that hasn’t happened since about 1856); stumbling across a sample sale where I found a fuschia pink leather jacket (can you imagine the joy?); seeing so many lovely friends at the party and having Rupert with me for once.

Lowlights; the red sofa on BBC Breakfast clashing horribly with my jumper (you can guess what colour it is); getting stuck in a size 8 dress at H&M and wondering if I would have to call the fire brigade (but as Rina my publicist said “We’ve all been there honey.”); not sleeping (no change there, the international conspiracy continues); getting my high heels repeatedly caught in cracks in the pavement; leaving Knightsbridge this morning and wondering when I’ll be back.

But a highlight will be seeing the babies, Max and Wolfie.

Fame at last…..

Posted on April 9, 2008 by Helena

The call came in just over half an hour ago. “They want you on BBC breakfast tomorrow morning,” said Rina the Arrow Books publicist. “And GMTV in two weeks.” After breakfast TV we have several local radio stations and LBC tomorrow evening after the launch party for an hour between 10.30 and 11.30pm.”

“11.30? Don’t they know how essential a good night’s sleep is in the fight against ageing?” I want to ask. But of course I am thrilled, excited and just, well, happy, that by the end of tomorrow the great British public may at least have heard of the book, even if they don’t want to buy it.

So, now for the preparation. I only have another 12 hours before I start. Luckily I ran across Elle MacPherson’s secret to big sexy hair in Harvey Nicks and bought a pot of it for a bargain Â£55. If my hair looks terrible tomorrow blame her. I also have a seaweed face mask (which I must remember to rinse off), exfoliators, new nail varnish and a whole evening alone to pamper myself.

Rupert has gone out with his publisher to talk about books. I have the much more serious task of deciding what to wear. I have been lent clothes by top designer Karen Brost (www.karenbrost.com) for the launch party, but I wonder if red stiletos and a strapless black satin dress might be a bit much before breakfast?

No fool like an April fool

Posted on April 1, 2008 by Helena

When I went to collect Leo from school today he ran at me, threw his arms around me and started giggling hysterically. As this is something he often does, I didn’t pay any attention. We left school, went to the park, chatted to friends and then came home.

At home I finally realised I had a fish stuck to my back, they call them poisson d’avril here. Seconds later I found a hand-written letter on my desk from the mayor. Rather suspiciously the handwriting looked just like Bea’s.

‘Helena,’ it read. ‘Your work is no good, your books are horrible, if there is not an improvement by the end of the week you will be removed from your work. Signed’ and there was a signature that looked a bit like a jelly-fish in some kind of trouble.

An email arrived from a TV production company specialising in food shows. They have read my blog and love it, it read. Would I like to come and chat to them about appearing on one of their shows. They made such hits as Two Fat Ladies and Gordon Ramsay’s F-word. I have made an appointment but am slightly worried the address will turn out to be fake. And how stupid will I feel standing on a building site wearing my chef’s hat and apron?

A long time in childcare

Posted on October 31, 2007 by Helena

Twenty-four hours is a long time in childcare. My husband is back, the kidney infection is in fact a trapped nerve and the children are being saints.

I can’t credit myself with their transformation. We have come to stay with our friends Norrie and Mary which seems to have done the trick.

Just as there’s nothing quite as horrendous as three children being horrible, there is also nothing quite as lovely as three children having fun and playing. Here they have lots to do. The rabbits, donkey, dogs, geese, chickens and ducks all need constant bossing about. Norrie and Mary are like the grandparents from heaven. “Go for a sleep,” they told us after lunch. “We’ll take the children for a walk.”

I didn’t even need my agv (see below) last night so have woken up feeling much better. I asked Rupert why he thought the children were so much nicer here than at home.

“They love it here,” he said, “and it’s different.” Rather like me in Harvey Nicks I suppose.

Today we head off with whichever children want to come (probably none) to Annecy. This is a town in the Savoie famous for looking a little like Venice where house prices are almost as high as in Paris.

Dr Dreamy Wherever I go I carry with me my box-set of the third series of Grey’s Anatomy. I am sorry to say this addiction has not been cured. Meredith is choosing between Finn the vet and Dr McDreamy at the moment.

“Who would you choose?” asked Bea.

“It’s a tricky one,” I said. “I don’t really know.”

“I would choose McDreamy,” said Bea. “Because he’s a doctor. And he’s dreamy.”

What more do you need?

Halle Berry and her big nose

Posted on October 26, 2007 by Helena

Babs Oh for goodness sake. Where will this all end? Halle Berry has had to issue a groveling apology because when she was shown a distorted image of herself where her nose was over-sized she exclaimed “I look like my Jewish cousin.”

“She must be punished,” says one reader in reaction to the article about the incident on the Daily Mail website. Oh please.

I am half-Swedish and half-Italian. Almost every time I tell people this they say (with an air of unconcealed disappointment) “oh, you don’t look very Swedish.” It is true, I don’t look remotely Swedish. As my Italian father pointed out when he first saw me after 12 years: “You’ve ended up with my looks and your mother’s brain; a most unfortunate way for things to turn out.”

But do I get offended if someone tells me I look Italian? I have brown eyes and brown hair. That is the Italian look. And no, it really doesn’t bother me if people point out that I look like an Italian as opposed to a Swede. It is true, just as it is true that a lot of people of Jewish descent have big noses. When did you ever see an actor playing Shylock with a small one? What is wrong with people? What is there to get offended about here? Why is having a big nose such a bad thing?

I despair at the political correctness we are forced to live with. It makes the world a really boring place where people are too frightened to speak for fear of upsetting someone. Halle Berry made a joke. But even she knew she would be in trouble so got the TV station to edit the word Jewish out of her sentence. Still news spread that she said it and everyone went crazy. How did we get so po-faced?

I’m with Peter from London, who also left a comment on the website. “Get over it. Nobody died.”

Welcome to Hell

Posted on September 18, 2007 by Helena

It was just like this I knew we’d arrived in Hell when I saw Tara Palmer-Tomkinson teetering about with a glass of cheap champagne on improbably high heels.

We were in a semi-marquee where there was a make-shift bar and Z-list celebs waiting to be ushered into Hell’s Kitchen. There was no door.

“I thought hell was meant to be hot,” said Mary.

A production assistant came up to us.

“You see, the thing is,” she said in that Estuary voice favoured by TV production assistants. “I can’t find you anywhere on our list.”
I thought briefly about strangling her, or pushing my way past security and strangling Marco, but instead I told her to go and strangle Marco and tried to stop my teeth from chattering for long enough to drink my champagne (which by the way I had to dilute with cranberry juice to make it taste better).

Our surroundings were not salubrious. They were, frankly, pretty shabby. And freezing cold.

After another half an hour we were told we could go in but would have to share a table with another couple and it would be quite a squeeze as it was a table designed for two. Talk about star-treatment. So in we walked.

“And we’re on air between 9 and 10.30 so try not to walk around,” added the production assistant.

“I’m not going anywhere else in these shoes,” said Mary. As she said that she stopped dead. In fact she wasn’t going anywhere as her heel was caught in the grill by the door to the set. There was no budging it. Three burly security guards tried but were worried they would snap the heel off.

“I knew these shoes would be the star of the show,” said Mary.

Eventually a pair of pliers was found and the heel extracted.

Our dinner companions were a charming young couple. Jeff had just signed a big deal with Marco for Unilever.
The dinner was less charming. After a long wait the courses came thick and fast. So thick and fast that you didn’t have time to finish one before the other arrived. The food was mediocre but we were told that originally they were just planning canapés for last night so we were lucky to be fed at all.

We weren’t interviewed at all (and why not I ask myself, we were by far the most interesting and attractive people in the room) but when Mary snuck to the look to call her husband he confirmed that her hair was on TV. After dinner a totally charmless security guard walked around shouting at everyone to clear out. We were only saved by Marco’s appearance.

Afterwards there was an “exclusive” party. This was about as exclusive as an event in a student bar and had all the same charming elements like plastic glasses and people dressed as if they were about to go camping. I was longing to get out as soon as possible. We tried to get a taxi. After waiting almost an hour we were told there was no hope. We looked out into the pouring rain and wind. In the distance I spotted a familiar car. Marco’s driver was there. We piled into his car with a sigh of relief. There was heating, comfortable seats and no Tara Palmer-Tomkinson.

Next time someone asks me to go on a reality TV show, remind me to say no.