I have not yet described the heat to you. It is quite remarkable. Here instead of sheltering inside shopping malls against the snow, sleet and rain you shelter from the sun.

I remember once in St Petersburg in December Rupert and I decided to walk from the Grand Hotel to the Hermitage (like you do). “You’ll never make it,” said the concierge. He was right. Despite regular sips of blueberry vodka from a hip flask, we had to take shelter.

Here it is the same but it’s the heat that will hinder your progress. I couldn’t imagine walking from here, for example, to the Corniche, which would probably only take fifteen minutes. I would melt en route. Even with an umbrella which I have noticed lots of people carry as a sun-shelter. There is no relief from the sea either. We went swimming yesterday. I kid you not, the water was as hot as a bath.

It’s strange though, I don’t dislike it too much. I find it quite comforting. It really is like walking into a steam room every time you go outside, the shock of it hits you and doesn’t lessen. But rather that than the Russian winter. The paper we’re going to work on here seems to be staffed mainly by Canadians, no surprise that.

Meanwhile our housing crisis lurches on. All being well (or Inshallah as we say down this way) we will be transferred to another, nicer, bigger hotel apartment today. Our dream flat is still not ours on account of our inability to come up with two annual salaries in one day.

But we are settling in. Suda our Sri Lankan cricket-playing taxi driver is a gem. The kind of man who is always calm, kind and charming. The children love him. He has his own family, but they are in Sri Lanka. He only sleeps three and a half hours a night so he can support them by working practically around the clock. I guess there are thousands of people like him here. We are all so spoilt in comparison.

Talking of spoiling, my new friend Amanda and I are going to have our hair done today and get manicures which I think will make all the difference. Not only to my hair but to my state of mind. And I will never complain about lack of sleep again now that I know what Suda does every day, day in and day out.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I had no idea where Abu Dhabi was until Rupert told me he had been offered a job there. He likes to get a proper job once every ten years or so, so he’s off to work on the business desk of a new newspaper called The National (www.thenational.ae).

“I’ll stay here,” I told him, imagining life as a single parent with a little trepidation. No one in their right mind wants sole responsibility for our three children, for every school run, every meal, every bit of shopping, ironing and homework.

Then my agent called me. A client of hers was going out too, to edit the new weekly magazine. Was I interested in working for her as a staff writer?

I decided to do some research into Abu Dhabi. This could be an interesting new slice of cake (see below blog). Here’s what I found out:

It’s hot
There are lots of parks
There are beaches
There are seven-star hotels
There are lots of shops, I mean SERIOUS amounts of shops
Most houses come with maid’s quarters
There are two French schools
The Louvre and the Guggenheim is about to open (good for when the shops are closed)
Dubai is close by
There are camels
There’s not much wine

I decided to join him and so after our European tour we are moving. The children are going to the French school and we are going to work. All very grown up. I will miss my afternoon kips and walks with wolfie but am extremely excited by this new adventure.

The children have taken it really well. Not a word of complaint and they’re really looking forward to it. Olivia did have two questions: “Are they handsome and will we have maids?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “But we’re about to find out.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I would like to give you all an insight into my hard working life. Rupert and I are in St Tropez at the chicest hotel in town, Byblos, which has been the best address in St Tropez since 1967 when Mick Jagger married Bianca on a terrace here. Guests include Brigitte Bardot, George Clooney and, er, my husband and I.

We are on a most gruelling schedule. Here is the itinerary for today:

Breakfast at leisure

Free time to explore St Tropez

1.00pm Lunch by the pool

18.00 Spa treatment

19.30 Cocktails and dinner at B bar.

I think you will agree that this is far too much to expect a person to do in just one day and support me in my letter of complaint to the National Union of Journalists.

As if this isn’t enough, tomorrow they expect us to go for lunch at Club 55. We will no doubt be forced to eat and drink for several hours while watching the waves gently lap the shore and spotting celebrities in exile from the Cannes Film Festival.

Is there no end to our suffering?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Regular blog readers may remember that ever since I was a little girl I have lived with the idea that a large suitcase of cash would one day magically appear on my doorstep. Well, it has.

The night before last we had a friend over for dinner. He is a charming man, a proper bloke, as Rupert would say. He showed up with presents for the children and wine for us. He played chess with all three children (and let them win), entertained us with stories and told us that is we ever needed anything to come to him. “After all,” he reasoned, “you are bringing on the next generation.”

Then we started talking about what we were up to. I told him about Renew and how we had lots of press coming but were still short on punters. He asked me how much it will cost to run the first retreat. I told him. “Oh I’ll lend you that,” he said. Needless to say, my immediate reaction was to jump up from the dinner table and kiss him. Amazingly this didn’t put him off. Today we are having lunch to iron out the details but thanks to this particular suitcase, Renew Retreats is now very much a goer.

If there happen to be any world leaders reading can I just say one thing? Boycott the Olympics in China. That’s all you need to do. France (bless her) has made some noises in that direction but the rest is a deafening silence. As for Gordon Brown meeting the Dalai Lama, good, but why not do it in Downing Street and make it a state visit? No need to answer that, we all know why; cowardice and greed. Not two adjectives one would use to describe the people of Tibet.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

There are certain dreads in life one never gets over. Having been on Richard & Judy a few times I now don’t stay awake all night worrying about the prospect of a TV appearance. As a mother of three I am just about able to cope with a summons to the headmaster’s office, though as it was with me during my school days this rarely means good news.

But PUBLIC SPEAKING - that is something I will never be comfortable with even if I live to be 150. Last night was the launch party for Renew Retreats, my new PINK business. We had pink balloons, pink champagne, lots of glamorous guests, including my lovely step-daughter, the Telegraph gossip columnist and the editor of YOU Magazine. Then it was time for the speech…I had been dreading it for weeks. I had asked Mary to do it instead. She refused. At 7.10 (ten minutes after the time I was meant to make the damn thing) I thought I could get away with it. And I would have done if it hadn’t been for my friend Annika. This is a girl who was a very successful model, is about two metres tall and can be extremely loud.

“Speech time,” she bellowed and everyone shut up. So there I stood, pink champagne in hand, expectant faces looking at me. Is there a worse feeling in the world? Possibly the dentist’s drill, but even that seemed like a good option at the time. My step-father once told me that the way to deal with nerves is to squeeze your toes hard and all your nervousness will go to your feet. I would have done that but had earlier invested in a pair of incredibly high pink satin shoes which don’t leave any room to squeeze a toe-nail let alone a toe.

“Welcome,” I began. And then went on, and totally miraculously, it all went fine. At least I think it went fine but by that stage I had drunk so much pink champagne to steady my nerves that I was beyond noticing. Let’s hope everyone else had too.

Anyway Renew Retreats is officially launched and a jolly good party it was too. As far as I can remember.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

There are worse places to spend a morning. I am at the Grand Hotel in Florence. My room looks out over the city and the Arno River. Inside it is almost more impressive. There are frescoes on three walls depicting romantic scenes from too long ago to even contemplate. The colours are faded reds, yellows and blues. The scenes unmistably Florentine. My bed has a regal structure over it which makes me feel like something out of a fairy-tale every time I look at it. There is a plush red velvet chair that is so deep, large and comfortable that I am tempted to stay in it for the rest of the week.

I am here for The 7 Arts (the head-hunters I work for) Christmas party. This is one of the advantages of having a proper job as well as writing. You get to see how people who have not spent most of their adult lives trying to be writers live.

Talking of trying to be a writer, I am reading a most brilliant and inspirational book called The Paris Review Interviews (Vol I). It is interviews with literary luminaries such as Truman Capote, Ernest Hemingway, Rebecca West and Dorothy Parker. I read last night that Capote was a horizontal writer. He always wrote lying down. Hemingway on the other hand preferred to stand up in his oversized slippers in front of a bookcase which he wrote on. This is obviously where I have been going wrong. Sitting down at my desk is not going to get me anywhere.

Happily as my adaptor plug doesn’t work properly I am writing this crouching on the floor with one foot pressed against the plug. Does that count do you think? Later on I may try penning a chapter or two while swinging from the wrought iron chandelier. That’s clearly what it’s there for.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

Back in the 1990s, when I was an energetic young journalist covering Russia and eastern Europe, there emerged the phenomenon of the ‘Biznessman’ or ‘Biznesswoman’. These characters, generally male, would huddle in hotel foyers wearing leather jackets and tell me about their money-making schemes. They didn’t make much sense to me, but I assume they paid off. Central Europe has been transformed and Russia seems to produce a new billionaire every day. So, ten years later, I have decided to become a Biznesswoman. I’m not sure that I will wear a leather coat or huddle in a hotel, but faced with a husband who thinks that writing books on wine and water is a money-making scam and children who insist on horse-riding, tennis and piano lessons – and that’s just on a Wednesday – there was no option.

My first ‘bizness’ is probably the one I am most excited about. It is called Renew Retreats. I came up with the idea soon after finishing my latest book, To Hell in High Heels. Never mind hell; I was taken to bed with a kidney infection, felt run down and ready to die. I looked around for a spa retreat that would rejuvenate me and found nothing that I fancied. So today with a few of the most inspirational women I met during my research for the book, including Tina Richards, a top London holistic dermatologist and Anna Cooper, a jet-setting yoga guru and psychotherapist, together with my friend and neighbour Mary Lesault, we have come up with the ideal five-day spa retreat.

Ten lucky women will gather at Le Couvent in Hérépian in the first week of May and be treated to massages (one rather exotic one involving a Kansu bowl and warm oils which I have tried and it is mind-blowingly good), yoga, one-to-one dermatological consultations, nutritional advice and inspirational talks by moi on, among other topics, how to unlock your inner French woman and anti-ageing tips. For more information you can visit our glorious pink website.

The other ‘bizness’ is more prosaic, but may prove more profitable. After seven splendid summers in Sainte Cecile, we have decided to take the children on a Grand Tour of Europe next year. This will include visiting my mother near Rome, my cousin in Stockholm, Bea’s best friend Norrie in the Savoie and anybody else willing to give us a bed for the night. To help pay for this jaunt we are going to rent out the house for the summer. I hope it is a good idea. If anyone you know would like to stay in an old stone farmhouse with a swimming pool and only cicadas for company (as well as Max the cat and Wolfie the dog obviously), you can find out more at www.creme-de-langeudoc.com by clicking this link.

Now where did I put that leather jacket? Maybe I can find a pink one….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I am lucky that I am not one of millions of ordinary French people trying to get to and from work today. For me the commute is easy. Out of bed and down the stairs to my office. But all over the country people are stranded, delayed, inconvenienced and for what? So that SNCF workers can retire aged 50.

Sarko was voted in by the French. His mandate was reform, and heaven knows the country needs it. Who do these civil servants think they are helping by bringing France to a standstill? Themselves of course. This is not what the majority wants, otherwise we’d have Sego not Sarko. These are selfish people fighting for their own turf to the detriment of the majority.

The message is clear. France cannot afford to go on like it has been. France is going broke. People need to work longer hours for more years if she is to stand a chance of being economically viable. Although we don’t pay a huge amount of tax our social charges are totally horrendous. We have had to take out loans to pay them off.

“But if you’re ill you can claim money,” our accountant told us. I would rather take that risk and not have the charges. But this is where the French mentality differs from mine.

The school is on strike today. The teachers are taking part in what they call a “national movement”. National movement for what? National movement to work as little as possible. Luckily my in-laws are not on strike and the children have gone there for the day. I’m lucky they are English, striking just isn’t in their vocabulary. A bit like claiming.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

We have just come back from Venice where we were invited to the launch of a joint venture between the estate agents Savills and a local company called Views on Venice. We stayed in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Grand Canal. The weather was amazing, sunny and warm, and we walked for hours on end, discovering parts of Venice that I have never seen before.

Another thing I discovered is what I most miss about living in England. I thought it was M & S or Waitrose or Bendick’s Bittermints. It’s not. It’s the girls. We went out for dinner Monday night after the launch party. There was the Savills PR girl Fiona, Rupert, three other female journalists from The Standard, the Mail on Sunday and Country Life (did you know by the way that it comes out weekly? Amazing, I can’t think what they find to write about. Apparently they have a dog of the week column now, is that animals or women I wonder?) and me.

Anyway, we sat down to dinner, ordered vast amounts of wine and had such fun. Having lived in France for seven years I have forgotten that all women are not forever counting calories and refusing to drink more than one half glass of wine. These women wouldn’t drink any less than half a bottle each. And OK you might wake up with a hangover, but all the laughing you’ve done must counterbalance the health threat of the alcohol.

English women are great. They are feisty, fun-loving, generous, warm and just fab company. Even Rupert, who was severely out-numbered, had a good time. I cannot imagine a group of French women having such a riot, and they certainly wouldn’t have drunk their way through four bottles of wine. Topics of conversation ranged from journalism (and how crap it can be, but then you do get to go on trips like this), children, men (and how crap they can be, except for Rupert, obviously) and whether to give up your maiden name when you get married. No is the answer.

Had I been out with a bunch of French women, I may have woken up feeling more clear-headed than I did on Tuesday morning, but where’s the fun in that?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I see today that yet another “top” banker is about to resign or be pushed following record losses for the bank he runs. Citigroup chairman Chuck Prince has earned £27 million during his last four years at the bank, where he has presided over losses of £3.3 billion and a 57% slide in profits.

He joins former Merrill Lynch boss, Stan O’Neal, who last week was asked to leave but given a £181 million golden goodbye. In common with Prince, O’Neal was responsible for record losses at his bank. A staggering $2.3 billion during just one quarter, and a total of $8.4 billion. For working so hard, O’Neal earned $48 million in 2006. Yet when he announced he was leaving the bank’s share price actually went up.

So let’s imagine you’re working at a nursery and you lose 57% of the children in your care. Do you think you would be sent home, told you have been very silly and given some more children to take home with you? Or you sell cars for a living but decide to give away half the cars in your forecourt to random passers-by?

These men are over-paid failures who have lost millions for their banks. But no one blames them for it. Why is this?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007