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.

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?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

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.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

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 £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?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

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?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

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.

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?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

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.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

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.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am not a big fan of reality TV shows, but as this one involves dinner cooked by a three-star Michelin chef and his two remaining celebrities, I am going.

I doubt very much I will even get on camera, unless of course I dare to complain about the food or trip over on my way to my table.
The logistics of getting to and from my table has been worrying me. Especially as I will be wearing high heels. It would be excruciating to fall flat on my face but possibly good publicity for the paperback of Ciao Bella which I am going to London to launch.
My dinner date at Hell’s Kitchen is Mary, who lives down the road from me in France. She and I have been planning outfits for the past three months and I think we’ve just about got them sorted. Mary is particularly pleased with her leopard-print high-heeled shoes, though quite how we’re going to get Hell’s Kitchen presenter Angus Deayton to notice them and share their splendour with the nation I’m not sure.

I will keep you posted on our progress.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

So I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for my expert commentary on the Sego/Sarko debate last night (considering I am a prize-winning political commentator see Glass half empty or half full blog). Well here it is. Madame de Fontenay whom I interviewed for my book on French women was right. “She will never be president,” Madame de Fontenay, famed in France for her elegance and strict running of the Miss France beauty pageant, told me. “Her hair is all wrong.”

Sego’s hair didn’t seem to know whether it was going in or out. Rather like her policies. Although the papers this morning claim she had the edge, I don’t agree. I thought she came across as rather vague and angry, unlike Sarko who was cool and confident. She also kept looking at her notes, which was unprofessional. Hair aside though, she does look very good. A bit of botox I wonder?

Another interesting thing was the minute and second counter displayed on the front of the table they were sitting at. Olivia kept looking at it asking who was winning. We all assumed it was there to show who had the upper hand, which one of them was getting their message across. Not a bit of it. It was to ensure both candidates spoke for exactly the same amount of time. At the end Sarko rather gallantly renounced the right to his missing three minutes.

The good news though is that whoever wins on Sunday my swallows are back. So now every time I open the door from my office to the garage to put a wash on (which is every two minutes) they chirp and fly around to greet me. I am so happy. There was something terribly sad about walking in there and being greeted by silence.

I may have to go to New York to get my hair done this weekend. Rodolfo is waiting for me with new hair infusions and a business plan to bring them to Europe which is going to make us all rich. Going to New York for a hair-do might sound like a drastic measure but bear in mind that if Sego had thought more about her hair she might have been president next week.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007