Santa no more

Can anyone spot a resemblance between the two men pictured? All will become clear further down.

In the words of the Four Seasons, O what a night! Have just spent a few days in London having meetings and obviously, having some social gatherings in the name of Christmas, the finale being my annual reunion with my best Fleet Street girlfriends Clare, Sarah, Ange and Sally. I really hope we are as loud, un-pc and bolshy 10/20/30years from now.....

These are the bits I remember...

- Trying to pick the cheapest vino Sheekeys had to offer when a bottle of Champagne arrives at the table courtesy of Iain (what a lovely gesture!) Husbands be warned, we are all cheap dates when it comes to sending a bottle to the table.

- The unfortunate lovey dovey couple sitting next to us who thought they were in for a bit of cultural conversation and sweet nothings only to discover they were seated next a raucously indiscreet bunch of Fleet Street's finest ..... but who quickly realised they had the hottest table in the room as they stopped talking to each other so they could listen in on our increasingly steamy and uncensored conversation instead.

- Sally refusing to let anyone else get a word in edgways (or was that me) as she pulled off her best interview technique of steering the juiciest conversation onwards and upwards and never losing focus. This is what comes of staying sober...no wonder she earns more than the rest of us combined.

-Finding ourselves in a pub in Dean Street at a table with three nutters who had been on a bender all day long and were unable to speak or focus. Even scarier, they were women. We were so scared of being glassed that we were rooted to the spot until we could drain our glasses and leave.

- Hitting the hotel bar only for Sarah to peak after 15 bottles of wine and Secret Santa and start nodding off in the corner....NB to Sarah - you are only getting away with it because your children are under five, next year, you will be forced to come out for the duration of the night/morning/lunch in dark glasses the next day.

- Clare insisting on an early hours visit to Gerrys, even though it was raining cats and dogs, it was 2am and we really should have all just done the decent thing and gone to bed. Interestingly tho, as soon as bed was mentioned, Ange was RARING to go, sprinting out of the hotel and insisting that we should trot along for old times sake.

- Clare falling alseep in the rickshaw taking us to Gerrys, and refusing to wake up on arrival. She was out cold for 20 minutes despite being shaken and shouted at. She insists she had his best interests at heart because he earnt a far bigger fare out of the extra time it took to wake her.

- Arriving at Gerrys and bunking in again under an assumed name(thank you Caroline S for making every Soho night out unforgettable even though you aren't actually with us) only for Clare to shout up a vodka and promptly crash out on me without taking so much as a sip of her drink (what was that about cheap dates?) Ange and Karen have to mount a paramedic drive to get her out again.

- Falling asleep in the hotel lobby (guess who?) while I order a cab as yes, Clare encore une fois, refuses to crash on Ange and Sarah's hotel room floor.

- Having a stand up ruck at 5am outside her house with our driver who wants £70 for a £30 journey (I knew we were in trouble when a top of the range AMG Mercedes pulled up, and it was our cab.)

- Clare offering to trade my suitcase, with all my Christmas shopping and fab new (unnecessary) purchases in exchange for the cab fare.

- Me screaming as he loads my case into the boot, and Clare screeching 'Kazza, you'd be sooooo crap at poker!' as she urges him to drive off with my suitcase. We beat him down to £50 but it took half an hour in the rain with my suitcase as the bait. Clare's verdict? 'We'd have got him down to £30 if you hadn't been such a pussy about your case.'

- Opening the door to the spare room at 6.30am after two cups of tea and an inquest into the night, to find Nosferatu in my bed (see picture.) A Hallowe'en mask stuffed with Clare's pjs was on the pillow, and her husband Nick thought it was funny to pad out the body under the duvet. I laughed til I had a heart attack. Funnily enough, it did bear a startling resemblance to Nick (he's the one in the first picture.)

Have cancelled Christmas as I can't take any more excitement. Talking of which, Santa has been cancelled in our house forever and I am devastated. Issy was talking about what she wants for Christmas and I said, Well, put it all in your letter to Santa. She shot me a withering look and said in a loaded tone: ‘Mum, I know that Santa is the same person as the tooth fairy because the writing is the same....it’s DADDY!’ Me: ‘Are you sure about that?’ (Actually it’s me who always writes the Santa note thanking her for the mince pie and carrot for Rudolph, after I have knocked back Santa’s brandy.)

I felt completely knocked for six and Iain must have looked gutted too because she then piped up: ‘I know you’re both upset, I’m really sorry! I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages that I don’t believe in Santa anymore but I didn't know how to tell you!!!!’

So this is how Christmas will be different this year....

- No more having to buy different wrapping paper for ‘Santa’s’ pressies. When the girls were young, I once made the mistake of using the same paper and had a whole lot of explaining about why Santa got his paper from WH Smiths just like us.

- No more squirrelling presents away for weeks and sneaking them down in the early hours of Christmas morning to put by the fireplace.

- No more making talcum powder snowy footprints by the fireplace (always loved that bit.)

- No more eating the mince pie, drinking the brandy (I loved that bit more) and writing in squiggly handwriting.

- No more dawn raids on Christmas morning as Issy charges in to say, ‘Has he been?’ (I’m crying as I write this, gonna miss that bit most of all.)

Galloping round Grasse

I'm sitting here with a cup of tea, some chocolate and my pjs on, having just got home from the Grasse 10k run. It's a great race which I did last year for the first time in 51 mins 59 secs (sadly obsessed that I remember, I know.)

Anyway, after some serious training sessions and a run of the course last week in 51 minutes (this was after a very late wine-fuelled night with Karen and JP) I had high hopes of beating my time this year. I have made a pact with myself that when my times start getting slower, I will have to stop competing as what is the point in doing worse rather than better?

Kicking the partying the night before might help but I have always had a healthy respect for runners who like to party til the small hours before getting up for a run. My old friend Shane Starling, who worked for Men's Health, is the perfect example of a hardcore party animal who'd stay out all night on our London Marathon warm weather training trips in Spain and Lanzarote while all the serious runners would be in bed by 9pm after a plate of pasta. Then he'd get up, frequently after an hour or two of sleep on a sunbed by the pool, and knock everyone else into a cocked hat on a 15k volcano run fuelled on vodka and adrenaline. Shane, I salute you.

It was with Shane in mind that I went out for dinner last night to Sara and Adrian's, which I couldn't resist even though I should've had an early wine-free night before the race. Sara cooked an amazing Thai meal and two and a half bottles of Chablis later (the boys were on red) I was beginning to think the race might not be such a good idea.

Awoke this morning to torrential rain, the first for almost two months, and it was so tempting to roll over in bed and go back to sleep but we dragged ourselves up and out to the centre of Grasse old town, where hundreds of runners were arriving. It might have been damp and miserable but spirits were high. They were playing Jump by Van Halen as everyone gathered at the start and call me a sap if you like but I can't help getting emotional at the start of a race....I always cry at the beginning of the London Marathon, whether I'm running it or watching it on TV. All non-runners/couch potaties can skip the next bit as it won't interest you one jot.

The gun went off at 10.34am and everyone took off. I decided on a new strategy. Have been quite stressed of late so I emptied my mind of everything and ran as fast as I could to catch the 50 minute pacer. Once I had overtaken her at 7k, I concentrated on maintaining my speed and went for it in the last kilometre. My mum, a fantastic county runner in her day, always told me to never look back (a good mantra for life too) and I was so obsessed with crossing the line that I forgot to look at the stopclock at the finish line so I am completely in the dark about my time, except I THINK I did it in under 50 mins. 49 something will do nicely.

I know you are as excited as me about finding out my time (!!!!) so I will be back later to put everyone out of their misery.........

omg 47 mins 07 secs

whoo whoo

Wine glorous wine

Haven't blogged for ages, no excuse apart from I have been busy and sometimes as my blogger extraordinaire bro-in-law Gaz says, you just aren't in the mood. So, the rule is, only do it when you are feeling funny and/or have a bit of news, otherwise it is boring for EVERYONE, me included. Here's me and Issy after lunch in Villefranche today...we went to Le Cosmo on the harbour with Iain, truly amazing pacific rim cuisine as well as traditional French, fantastic service and hot sunshine in late November (the only bit I can't guarantee.)

Last week I did an interview for The French Paper with Stephen Williams. I realise this doesn't sound that scintillating but stay with me. What Stephen doesn't know about wine, one of my all-time favourite subjects, frankly isn't worth knowing. I think the email from Rachel, the associate editor, asking if I would be interested in meeting one of the world's leading authorities on vintage wine at the Grand-Hotel in St Jean Cap Ferrat, is possibly one of the most inviting I have ever received. (Okay, apart from the Bora Bora job, and meeting Nelson Mandela in Cape Town. And Rio....will stop now.)
The hotel is amazing in every sense. Superb attentive service (I was the only guest but let's not split hairs,) a fabulously decadent facelift which preserves the character of the hotel while giving it a very clean-lines effect and staff that enjoy their jobs and are proud to be in the service industry, which is becoming way too much of a rarity. The general manager Michel Galopin was charming and utterly understated. Stephen arrived with his lovely PR Julie and we toured the Salon des Collections, where some of the world's most valuable wines are stored. There is around £2m worth of wine in this cosy little private dining room, including the world's most expensive white, Chateau d'Yquem, dating back to 1797.

We sat down to chat and the waiter brought over a bottle of 2002 Chateau d'Yquem, a delicious Sauternes that retails at a cool €820 a bottle. I had a personal masterclass in wine tasting from Stephen on everything from smelling it to swilling it around in the glass to finally sipping it. It was glorious. If only every interview was this civilised. Later I stood up a bit too quickly (nothing to do with the wine, reader) and cut my knee on the table, at which point the waiter appeared with yet another glass, purely for medicinal purposes, while his colleague produced a swab and plaster. Now that really is service.

Started yoga two weeks ago with Faye, who is a yoga teacher, funnily enough, and lovely Fiona. We do it at my house after the school run and I wasn't sure how I would find it, although with all the running and tennis I really need something that is a bit more flexible and relaxing in my life. Fi is an old hand while I am completely new to it but the 90 minute session flies by, with me usually falling asleep during the 'relaxation' bit at the end and then feeling spaced out for the rest of the morning. Lovely and competely legal.

Have been watching the floods in the Lake District, which makes the weather here seem all the more bizarre. This time last year, the first falls of snow were covering the Alpes Maritimes and our local resort Greolieres had its best season for 25 years. This year, no snow to speak of yet but 21 degrees and hot sunshine every day. We swam on the beach last Wednesday and will probably do the same this week, it is totally mad and while I'm desperate to see snow, really cannot find it in my heart to complain about still being able to put on a bikini in late November. I seem to remember this is why I left Hertfordshire.

We went to the remembrance day service at Bar sur Loup cemetary on November 11th. It's a bank holiday here - I cannot understand why it isn't in the UK - and the girls know that we (ergo they) have to go. This year, even Lily came too, and given that she and Liv would far rather be at Cap 3000 or in Cannes shopping, chatting to boys and eating at Subway, I was quite impressed. Even more so when everyone sang La Marseillaise and Issy quietly joined in word perfect.

Finally (this is my funny bit) Issy came home today to say that her class had been given the 'period talk' at school. She was horrified (but not as horrified as when I said I would put it in my blog.) With a 14 yo sister, clearly she knows most of it already, and said as soon as it started, the boys were giggling, everyone was blushing and no-one knew where to look. By the time the teacher moved onto pubic hair, the entire class was in a state of shock horror. I would so have loved to be a fly on the wall. After she finished telling me, I said, well if there's any more you need to know, ask away. Cue a very withering look and deafening silence.

Paris...it sizzles

Paris was a blast. Thought I was being clever booking the train and it worked perfectly until I was on the way back. Had booked first class and was busy working on my laptop and feeling extremely smug about how much I was getting done thanks to my little personal plug point at my side when I was unceremoniously kicked off at Marseille due to a technical fault, then missed my connection back to Nice by an hour and finally crawled in at just before 1am. I will try REALLY hard not to moan about easyJet in future.



Highlights in Paris - hanging out at the Lido, watching rehearsals with Amanda in feathery costumes and swapping great gossip with her lovely husband Chris, stopping traffic on the Champs Elysees as we did an impromptu photo shoot in front of the Arc de Triomphe, watching the show that night (it was amazing, camp, kitsch and utterly over the top, like being transported back to the 50s) as the manager told me to order what I liked and they would carry me home (reader, be assured that wasn't necessary,) and gazing at the lit-up-like-a-christmas-tree Eiffel Tower on the way back to the hotel. Only thing I would say is Paris is not a place to be on your own, better when you are with someone, but didn't allow that to cramp my style.



Mooched around the Rue St Honore the next day, checked out the Hotel Costes, truly a cool place to stay, and Colette, which is every bit as good as the hype except the designers featured are Lanvin, Dior, Chanel and therefore suitable for window shopping but defo not buying. Found a great book called I Love Your Style by Amanda Brooks who used to work for Vogue. Full of amazing photos from the past 40 years of style icons, classic, vintage and boho fashion. Perfect reading material for Sunday morning in bed with a cup of tea.


Came home to an empty house as Iain and the girls were in London. Cleaned like a demon (wish I could lose my OCD complex) while playing the Police and the Jam at full volume which would not be acceptable if we were en famille, then ate in the dark (well candlelight) because that is how I like it, while everyone one else likes bright lights illuminating every corner. Funny how rebellion can take on different forms. Having the house to myself for two days was completely lovely although I think it's lovely only because it isn't a permanent situation. Usually I am the one who is away so I never get the chance to clean up and actually see it last. What a novelty to get up the next day and not trip over dirty clothes, towels and duvets strewn across the floor, or find toilets unflushed and countless mugs of cold tea and beakers of rank juice going mouldy. It was joy..but makes me wonder what am I turning into?

Village life

The clocks have gone back so autumn is officially here but on the beach at Juan les Pins today, it still felt like summer. Now that the summer dog ban is finished, Tallulah and Oscar can come to the beach, so they spent the whole day tearing around, rolling in the sand, paddling in the sea and sidling up to restaurant tables looking for scraps. Oscar followed me along the shoreline as I swam but wasn't brave enough to come into the water, as it was a bit fresh.

Have spent the last two weeks writing and pitching for commissions on the LA interviews. Have lots of meetings fixed up in London in early December with PR friends who have lots of projects coming up, including one with a friend who is now in charge of Comic Relief press, which will be a great one to cover next spring. Am also covering Glastonbury for Hello next summer - it's the 40th anniversary so the line up is sure to be even more amazing than usual - the girls are overjoyed at the idea of being there, even more so at the thought of VIP treatment and rubbing shoulders with the acts.

So it's all go at Chemin du Laquet, but sadly the same can't be said for Bar sur Loup in general. In recent weeks, there have been whispers in the village about 'le village, c'est mort' meaning that quite literally, the village is dying. It sounds dramatic but in recent weeks, our fave restaurant/hotel the Hostellerie du Chateau, closed for good as it is not making any money, as did the butcher. The boulangerie is up for sale, while our local Boulangerie Maia has been closed since spring after the baker was diagnosed with cancer. He has tried to find someone to take over but had no luck. And our little pizzeria, Michelangelo, hasn't opened at all this year. The Hostellerie is where we stayed when we were househunting and Michelangelo was our regular haunt so it is really sad to see places close because of a dwindling economy. Sometimes you feel like you are in a bubble here but the crunch is affecting everyone.

Off to Paris tomorrow to meet up with Amanda Holden, who is learning to be a showgirl at the Lido for a new ITV series called Fantasy Lives. She told me last week it's the hardest thing she's ever done and reckons it might look really easy when the show airs, so she asked me to come and watch her in action and tell everyone it's not as easy as it looks! I had to think for about 5 seconds before saying yes. She did mention something about me joining in but am pretending I didn't hear that bit! It's about 11 years since I last went to Paris and even the thought of a 6.30am train tomorrow morning can't kill the excitement. Staying til Tuesday evening and determined to fit in a visit to Colette, the most amazing store in Paris, and its new offshoot Merci.

We also talked about Simon Cowell's party a few weeks ago - her highlights were his brother's speech, which bluntly 'outed' Simon in the most hysterical fashion (half the partygoers were crying with laughter, Amanda included, while the other half, who have yet to work with Simon, were straightfaced for fear of blowing their chances.) The other highlight was a woman dressed up as a dancing vagina, I kid you not. Simon told his elderly mum it was a giant mouse! Think Paris will be a hoot, she is such good value because unlike a lot of showbiz stars, she has a wicked sense of humour and is gloriously indiscreet.

LA part two

Went surfing to Malibu on my birthday with Jude. It made up for not seeing the girls and Iain, which felt very weird. Now Watergate Bay, where beginners can stand up is one thing, Malibu is another. Put it this way, I did not do a Cameron Diaz and effortlessly sweep in on every wave, I spent most of my time paddling out to catch waves that kept eluding me. Caught a few in the end, but got nervous when one female surfer paddled over to say she just wanted to tell me how brave I was! It was plainly obvious to all the experts I was completely out of my depth. No worries, I surfed (very badly) at Malibu, and if you lose the brackets, that's all that matters! We had cocktails on the beach and then headed back for a fab supper.

Our big night out was at The Abbey, LA's most famous gay bar, and whether you're gay or straight, you cannot fail to have a good time. Most of the barmen are very good looking, straight, married guys (work that out) and it reminded me of the mad times we used to have clubbing with Gary, my lovely bro-in-law.

Came home Sunday night and still battling jet lag - as an eight hours a night girl, it is so dull to wake up at 3am feeling wide awake - and back in the groove of doing the less glamorous bit of writing everything up.

The only thing to get really excited about this week was the prospect of an open fire now the nights are getting chilly. It's a way of avoiding the five times an hour power cuts we were getting last winter and nothing beats an open fire. As I write, it's been going an hour, the room is filling with smoke and I can barely see, so not exactly a triumph but determined to get that *&**%ing chimney working. Have discovered that flames are good, but as soon as they die down, the smoke starts to flow in, so it's a constant relay of chucking more on everytime it starts to settle down - the perfect antidote to a cosy night lazing by the fire!

Sometimes there is nothing better in the world than room service. Arrived in LA on Friday and have been busy working and going out to fab restaurants. Interviews so far include Sam Neill (charming) Sally Field (very sweet) Rob Lowe, Felicity Huffman (very witty) and today, Courteney Cox (having heard horror stories, was surprised to find she was really quite funny and a good chat and in excellent shape at 45, which is comforting for someone who is not a million miles away from that herself.)
I'm staying at the London Hotel in West Hollywood, a truly decadent hotel where they hold yoga classes by the pool, give you suites big enough to throw a party in and generally go the extra mile to make you feel special. After eating sushi at Koi, which is one of the best Japanese restaurants in LA, and dinner last night here at Gordon Ramsay's restaurant, it was a thrill to realise that actually, I didn't have to go out tonight. So I went to the gym, soaked in a bath so big that a small child could swim lengths in it and ordered, yes, more sushi, from room service. Perfection.
On Sunday night some friends of friends took me to see Kylie in concert at the Hollywood Bowl. It is an amazing venue, an amphitheatre set in parkland so as it gets dark, it looks even more magical. We were right at the front and Kylie was a little pocket fairy in wacky costumes, belting out all her disco tunes and making the 75% gay crowd go delirious with excitement. The after-show party was equally fab, with pole dancers, drag queens and dancers on stilts entertaining everyone while Kylie sat in the VIP area with a few friends.
So far, have checked out a few shops between interviews (it has to happen) and these are my tips if you come to LA. Wasteland on Melrose is probably the best vintage store I have ever been to, they stock everything from Marc Jacobs to Missoni at basement prices, including Sass and Bide jeans for $45 (don't bother rushing, I bought them.) Everything I have ever bought there I still love, it's worth the airfare for that alone. Madison on Melrose is designer but with a sale offering 75% off, it was affordable too, so the studded black Pour la Victoire heels found a worthy home.
It's my birthday tomorrow and it is going to be very weird waking up alone. I have the girls homemade cards in my suitcase which will make me cry, but Judy has arranged cocktails and dinner at the Mondrian tomorrow evening, which will be really good fun. If we get a chance we are heading to Malibu after work so I can do some surfing and she can do some laughing.