What January blues?

What a mental couple of weeks. Whoever thinks January is dull and boring needs to move into our house....it has been non stop since we got home at New Year. Last week was la Plagne, on a gorgeous Disney job interviewing snowboarders and freestyle skiers in the middle of the Alps.

Before I get loads of hate mail, I should point out that it did entail a 16 hour round trip by train (with breathtaking scenery from my First Class carriage)and a rather hair raising ride up the mountain followed by a rather nerve-jangling slip backwards down the hill for 15 minutes in a fierce snowstorm. The trip also necessitated me standing in very bright sunshine at the top of a snow park watching lots of talented teens do 360s, back flips and other death defying feats while nursing a hot chocolate. It was sunny but so cold that I had to fit in the odd ski down to Belle Plagne alongside the experts (well, ok, quite a long way behind them) to get the circulation back in my fingers and toes. Just so you know that the life of a former Fleet Street hackette involves more than just watching the celebrity world go by....

Came home to warmish sunshine and lots of social engagements which is never a bad thing either in January (did someone mention detox?) including some rather strenuous but sunny tennis and a very convivial supper at Helen and Neil's.

Last week was Livvy's stage - and she chose to work with mama as a trainee journo. I'd like to say she chose the soft option but as the first part of this blog proves, my life is anything but. Not for her a 3.30am start at the local boulangerie to bake baguettes and croissants or a stint at a hotel cleaning bedrooms and toilets. After establishing that her hours would be 9 - 4pm with an hour for lunch (an hour!) she would surface at about 8.50am in her pjs, selectively not hearing my instructions that she needed to be at her desk, PC at the ready, at 9am sharp. One morning when I asked her to do some research for me, she asked if she could do it from her bed.....at which point I realised that a. I might have made a monumental mistake not forcing her to work in the real world and b. that I'm obviously not a very fearful boss.

Once we had established that working for me involved getting dressed and not leaving her bedroom in its usual turmoil, she was actually pretty sharp, and did wonders with a feature I gave her to write as well as some research on a Hollywood teen star. On Friday, I asked her what she thought of her week. 'Hmmm, you have a pretty nice life mum,' was her verdict. So I had to point out that it has taken 20 years of hard slog to get to this rather lovely, privileged position.

Just watching the news while I write this and Andy Coulson's resignation is still the story du jour. We worked together at The Sun when we were both showbiz reporters and you'd struggle to find a better, more thorough and committed operator than Andy. Can't help feeling he has been made the scapegoat for an awful lot of Fleet Street misdemeanours....and having resigned once already over this scandal at the News of the World, it all seems a bit double jeopardy to me.

And so to the saddest news of the week which is the Lambs leaving for pastures new (no pun intended.) We have had three farewell lunches this week...see above...two of which stretched into darkness (and not just in our hearts either.) Some fab laughs, photos and memories that will endure.... So many people have left to go back to the UK that it feels a little like being the last few survivors on the Titanic - Will and Madsy and the four little Lambs, like Sara and Adrian, will be much missed.
But after almost three years in la belle France, I have found that real friendships withstand distance and time quite readily. There are friends in London that I see more of now than I did when I lived a few miles up the road and it was all too easy to cancel or rearrange longstanding plans. No-one does that now that we're 1,000 miles away! The pool, wine fridge and 300 days of sunshine obviously have nothing to do with it.

London beckons once more so off to pack and get my beauty sleep .......

London's calling

Well it's January, that gorgeous time of the year when you know you're still three months from spring, night falls at 4pm, you have no money AT ALL and the last thing you want to do is join a gym. Seems like a bad idea to be making resolutions on top of it all and depriving yourself of the only things likely to get you through the next few weeks (those being chiefly chocolate, carbs and wine.) So I am making no resolutions at all this year. Especially as there is a family pack of chocolate eclairs that I'm still working my way through as well as a few leftover bottles from a little drinks party a few weeks ago. The only reason they are lying untouched is because we have been in London for Christmas and New Year.

The highlights were a white Christmas (well an icy one,) London's New Year fireworks and the parties, of which there were many. All the friends we stayed with have been to stay here with us and wanted to make us feel really welcome, so they all threw parties in our honour on arrival. However when you have all your worldly belongings, two kids and two dogs in the back of the Jeep and you are moving on average once every 24 hours to a new destination, any interest in parties starts to wane and is replaced by a desperate yearning to get to sleep before 2am, watch at least one Chistmas TV special and not retire to bed on one bottle of Chablis minimum.

The highlights were two uniformed police officers arriving at Clare and Nick's soiree at 3am to tell us to turn the music down, only to be offered a glass of port and a plate of cake crumbs by a slightly inebriated hostess, which they politely declined. One of them was barely out of his teens but still recognised Joy Division, which restored my faith in the men in blue and the youth of today in one fell swoop. Most impressive of all was that a bunch of 40-somethings can still party hard and loud enough to upset the neighbours and I am wearing that as a badge of honour. I did think they were strippers at first but thankfully kept that thought to myself.

Equally impressive was Belinda and Grant's pre-NY eve karaoke party at which Grant, who most days can be caught at the House of Commons talking a lot of sense in his role as Housing Minister, gave what can only be described as a faultless rendition of the best rap song ever, Rappers Delight. It's nine minutes long and he gave the Sugarhill Gang a run for their money without missing a beat. Respect. Grant, I am listening to it now stone cold sober and I still don't know how you did it. It's enough to make me want to vote Tory. Much Champagne was imbibed and a certain handyman, who had made me promise not to drag him anywhere near the mike, was the first up on the floor waving his pink wand in his hand, and the last to leave. Hmmm, he doth protest too much.

The Barcombe village drinks party was also enlivened by the strength of Sarah's home-made prosecco, pomegranate, gin and elderflower cocktails. A lovely drink providing you do not need to get up for a week. Many poor souls had to cook their turkey a mere 36 hours later. And last but not least, Norma and Tony's NY eve party in London, where Katie's iPod playlist ensured that everyone was up on the dancefloor all night and it seemed like a good idea to carry on until 4.30am, at which point I realised that we were leaving for Calais a few hours later. At least I didn't have to drive (Iain had to justify his secret sloping off for a 1am bedtime somehow, the lightweight.)

I will gloss over the hideous journey from France to Lewes (21 hours, most of which was spent queueing for a ferry after the Eurotunnel joined the shameful ranks of Eurostar and many UK airports in being unable to handle passengers due to an electricity failure.) And the 14 hour journey home on NY Day (seemed like such a good idea at the time but no, NEVER AGAIN) which has negated any need for a silly NY resolution like avoiding alcohol. Christmas shopping in Brighton two days before Christmas day when most people have spent a week snowed in was also not a good idea for future ref. And thinking it would be fun to take the dogs (180 euros in vets fees and train tickets) only to spend two weeks being covered with grimy footprints every time we let them out of the car for a pee.

Thanks to everyone who gave us food and shelter as we trundled around the snowbound UK looking like the Clampits and getting stuck daily in motorway gridlock. I have worked out that we spent as long in the car as we did out of it. So Bar sur Loup it is next Christmas.

Next week it's La Plagne to interview the best young snowboarders and skiers in Europe for Disney. Now that's what you call snow.

Close encounters

There is no end to the distractions of working from home. The girls are at school and Iain is at work, which should mean peace and tranquillity and no excuse for writers block. Not so. I have just discovered Oscar, the mentally deranged pug, loudly chewing. Given that he inhales every meal whole in 15 seconds flat and then proceeds to race around the kitchen hoovering up any stray biscuits that happen to bounce out of his or Tallulah's bowl with lightning speed, I go over to investigate knowing only that it cannot be food he is eating.

He has stolen Issy's favourite dog-eared toy puppy that she has treasured since babyhood from her bedroom and has pulled out both beady eyes to indulge in a light snack. Having lost the tussle to continue (digging beads out of a pug's slobbery mouth is only marginally better than picking up poo) he is now consoling himself by licking the upholstery on the chaise longue.

He rates high on the cute factor, but there's no doubt he is one bone short of a doggy bag, or as I heard it called today, a Chewy Vuitton. We are taking him and Tallulah to London for Christmas (oh happy days on a 14 hour car journey) and Clare has begged us to bring Hotel for Dogs along as it is his favourite film. He joins in with the action scenes, standing at the side of the TV waiting to chase all the hounds when they run off camera and occasionally headbutting the screen in his excitement. Ruby and Charlie are desperate to video him in full audience participation mode and start a new YouTube sensation. Spot the difference above...one thinks he has a career looming in movies, the other has no eye, dear.

Highlight of the week was a close encounters experience at Helen and James's annual Christmas carol service on Tuesday night. Following a tuneful rendition at their little chapel, complete with authentic snow flurries and a fantastic feast of curry and mulled wine for around 70 people, the kids decided to light chinese lanterns and let them float into the night.

As we left later that evening, we were amazed to see a cluster of them still alight, hundreds of feet up in the valley (the lanterns, not the kids.) We were slightly puzzled by the number of local gendarmes and pompiers gathering in the village with their own blue lights flashing as they set up a roadblock but thought nothing more until Wednesday morning when we heard radio reports of a UFO sighting in Bar sur Loup! Some of the villagers not at the festivities had reported strange supernatural lights and fearing an alien invasion, called the police, who were following up all leads with gusto.

Riviera Radio and Nice Matin gave the story further credibility, with Nice Matin quoting a terrified local who described ‘a stationary orange light about ten times bigger than a star hovering just below the cloud line. It lasted for seven to eight seconds then a second light arrived before disappearing. Three other lights then appeared.’ Yes, that would be the lanterns....

With C-day looming, I have further distracted myself by shopping for presents on the internet as I am still struggling to commune with the idea that the big day is really not far away. I thought I'd read the letters to Santa that I forced both girls to write to give me some ideas. Livvy's was extremely helpful, with full url web address links for the gifts she wanted, complete with colour codes and prices. So much for the old fashioned spirit of Christmas reigning supreme. Issy's was less specific and I think she must have forgotten which of Santa's elves would be reading her letter when she sat down to write the paragraph about how immaculately behaved she has been all year and will continue to be next year!

Bonnes fetes to everyone.....

Feeling hot hot hot

So, on a day when I have many jobs to do, I have managed to achieve precisely very little. Every other Monday is the same scenario and for this, I have the lovely Issy to blame. Her two week school agenda means she starts at 10.20am and finishes at 3.10pm. Hardly worth her going in (she agrees but has yet to persuade me completely) so I find I get home from Grasse just before 11am and then have to leave again at 2.45pm to pick her up as the buses are too irregular to trust outside peak hours (or indeed at all when Tam Tam do their usual and just forget to turn up or stop in Bar sur Loup.)

So today, instead of rushing back to write up an interview with Robert Redford for The French Paper (lovely craggy man with a wicked sense of humour) I found myself wasting time Christmas shopping at Fragonard and Galimard in Grasse as I have just realised that with less than two weeks to go, I haven't yet bought a single present for anyone. Then I tried to download a picture from Cannes Christmas market yesterday of a dog looking totally peed off in a handbag - it just pipped the chihuaha in the fake leopard print jacket to the post. Dressing a dog up as a cat is a no no in my view. Sadly my new Blackberry torch that has replaced my clapped out Storm is refusing to send it so you will just have to use your imagination...

Then I decided to make a shepherds pie with a difference for supper tonight. Iain usually cooks all the meat in this house as I haven't eaten it for over 20 years. Forget alligator eyes or kangaroo's bits, mince and mashed potatoes are the two things I would struggle to eat if I was on I'm a Celebrity....at a famous London Italian restaurant many years ago, I disgraced myself by spitting a mouthful of lumpy mash into my linen napkin very indiscreetly before dashing madly for the loo, so averse am I to any kind of potato lump. My mum blames the Smash we were force fed at primary school, apparently I have never been the same since.

Trouble is, the handyman cannot help himself loading everything from spag bol to shepherds pie with enough chillis to blow your tastebuds (and everything else) out of the water. Anything that doesn't have at least three whole chillis in is deemed 'bland' or 'a bit tasteless' which is rather infuriating when you have laboured over a subtly flavoured fish pie or a spaghetti vongole, where the absence of chilli is purely deliberate. The fact that my Italian neighbour Rosine has just given us a year's supply of fresh chillis from her garden merely compounds the problem, with the poor girls having to drink two litres of water with every meal Iain cooks now.

So I wasted 90 minutes making a flavoursome and entirely heat-free shepherds pie before realising that there were only four tiny potatoes left in the fridge. Knowing that this new carb-lite version of an English classic combined with the lack of 'flavour' would be enough to cause a cretin person (I meant to type 'certain' but that must have been a Freudian slip) to throw a minor strop, I decided to mash the leftover veggies from yesterday's roast with the potatoes to bulk them out. A cunning plan and one which I hope will work as the last time I did this for a fish pie for Sunday lunch with friends, I added rather more olive oil than necessary and blended it for so long that it looked like cat sick when I served it up. All in the pursuit of no lumps. The best compliment that day came from Serge, who diplomatically remarked that it tasted so much better than it looked!

Enough about my cooking prowess, writing about food has reminded me that it is now almost lunchtime which means that there is definitely no point reliving the lovely chat with Mr Redford today as by the time I have made and eaten my lunch, it will leave just an hour until the school run. I remember in the way distant past BC when I used to get so carried away writing and fulfilling deadlines that I would still be tapping away on my PC in a completely dark house, in the days before small voices would disturb me begging for supper.

The only thing that makes me feel slightly better about my lack of dedication today is the memory of my gorgeously talented journo pal (CM you know who you are) who did precisely one and a half day's work a week on her weekly national newspaper column. This involved reading all the week's papers in bed on a Wednesday afternoon and writing opinionated and highly entertaining topical copy all day Thursday, after which she would have five and a half days of complete non-taxing bed rest before having to do it all over again. She made the mistake of entertaining us with this tale of career dedication one night over a very boozy dinner as her horrified husband did the mental maths and promptly sacked the cleaner, the au pair and the gardener. I think it was the same night I fessed up to driving the car the wrong way down the A13 shortly after passing my driving test...a fact I had kept to myself for many years before that dinner party. It was almost worth nearly killing myself and a dozen other horrified motorists to watch the faces round the table that night! Although none of those faces could begin to match the horror of the ones on the A13 as they hurtled towards me at 70mph in the fast lane, just as I slammed the car into reverse and sped backwards onto the roundabout to continue on my way, this time on the correct carriageway.

In other news....the car is working again (hurrah) following €1000 euros of umming and aahing by various mechanics and a few minor repairs at two garages last week. So Christmas in London is back on (double hurrah.) And our first meeting of Premier Mardi, for working women to network and exchange ideas (not gossip or tittle tattle, and there was no eating of cake either) went swimmingly.

I will leave you with the entertaining faux pas I witnessed on my erstwhile boss Piers's talk show last night. A very revealing interview with Elton John, where he spoke frankly about his near death experiences with drugs and his habit of downing a bottle a day of Johnnie Walker suddenly cut to the ad break and the show's sponsor...Grants whisky!

Tomorrow is another day.

Bah humbug

Can it really be less than three weeks til Christmas? I am usually in full on festive mode by now, making mulled wine, sending Christmas cards and buying presents but the Scrooge in me has taken over and I am in denial this year, particularly as the car has given up the ghost and so, two weeks before we depart foggy, rainy France for snowy, freezing London we still don't know how we are going to get there.

The original plan was to drive with kids, dogs and Christmas pressies, smugly bypassing any wildcat airline strikes, closed airports and snowbound runways and stopping off as and when we need to (with Oscar the car-hating, nauseous pug in tow that will be about every 10 minutes.)

However, even the chance of booking the car into a garage before Christmas is proving to be about as likely as witnessing the second coming. I was very efficient, French even, in my tactics this morning. On the phone at dead on 8.30am to request an appointment at their earliest convenience. The receptionist took my name and number and told me a technician would ring me back. Two hours passed, nothing. Then my phone rang with an unfamilar number as I sat in Cafe Latin in Valbonne with a friend so I started into my spiel about the car being stuck permanently in second gear, only to discover it was actually Fenelon, asking where Livvy was! Not sure who was more surprised, me or Msr Motet!

I rang the garage again at 11.30, explaining that I would quite like to be able to make an appointment before the end of 2010 to be told they had my message and my number and yes, someone would be ringing me back to arrange an appointment. Needless to say, nothing. I'd find it disappointing if I wasn't so familiar with this scenario.

While the weather has been doing its worst here, I have been busy beavering away on my website www.karenhockneymedia.com. Have had some great feedback already from friends and colleagues and the guys at Brightbox did a fab job of making it look slick and professional (if only they could perform the same magic on me!)

Spoke to the lovely Dermot O'Leary last week, who has never changed despite now being one of the hottest hosts on TV. He's hosting the National TV Awards next month and talked about why he won't wait as long as Simon Cowell to tie the knot, how his personal trainer kicks his butt to kick him in shape and why he would do pretty much anything for the job of US X Factor host. Coming soon in Closer and Hello.....

Finally, the photo at the top is destined to remind everyone in Blighty that snow can be quite lovely really...first day of ski season last Saturday in Greolieres with views down to the coast, fresh snow, sunshine and a Snickers and a grand creme to die for....

Monte Carlo or bust

I think I might be starting to lose my credibility as a cool mum (my friends all agree with me that I am, the girls obviously disagree as is their prerogative during hormonally imbalanced teen and tween dom. The truth will out.)

Evidence of this worrying situation came to light over supper this evening when I mooted my great idea for Liv's 16th birthday next spring. 'Why don't you invite some of your friends over to camp and Max and Jeff can set up their band equipment in the garden and you can all pretend you are at Glastonbury?' was my suggestion. Iain's contribution was: 'Yeah, great idea, and we can clean up loads of old joints and beer bottles all over the garden the next day.' Liv stopped eating and looked utterly horrified. 'Have I actually heard you say that or am I in a TOTAL nightmare? That is the kind of thing you would only do if you were seven or 47 mum. Not 16.' Point taken, but on the plus side, it looks like I'm a mere few years away from throwing Bar sur Loup's first music festival.

Occasionally you can have a really amusing conversation with a 15-going-on-30 year old, entirely dependent on what side of bed they got out of. If the sun is shining, they have money in their pockets, a lift sorted and there are builders tea bags(rather than my preferred Earl Grey) in the cupboard, the chances rise considerably.

Last week Liv went with a friend to a make up workshop in Monaco. It was kind of like a Swiss finishing school for young ladies rolled into one afternoon at the Fairmont Plaza, and a great idea on how to demonstrate to a bunch of teenagers that less (make up) really is more. A point I have tried to hammer home with very limited success for the last two years. Part of the afternoon was devoted to making small talk with strangers (an under rated skill if you've ever had to walk into a party where you know no-one, as I have frequently for work, and somehow spend three hours not only having a passable time but getting some kind of story out of it.)

Anyway, after the make up session, each girl was told to ask an open ended question of the girl sitting next to them. Liv was seated next to a 12-year-old Russian girl who lives in Monaco. She marked her card in the lift on the way up when she revealed that she was not removing her sunglasses because she hadn't had a chance to put her make up on that morning. Her question was:'Have you seen the new season Dior collection yet?' While Liv tried to think of an open ended answer rather than:'Of course not, I am only 15' the team leader told her not to worry and to make up an answer because no-one here will have seen that yet. To which the Dasha Zhukova wannabe responded: 'Well, I only asked because the colours and designs are so amazing this season and my closet is already full of it!' When Liv elaborated that her wardrobe was full of Zara, H&M and Converse, the poor girl looked completely lost. As am I at this story but this is just another completely normal day in the wonderful wacky Cote d'Azur.

A Monday meltdown

France is not in my good books today. Whenever any of my buddies (chiefly Tony or Will) start complaining about life in France, the bureaucracy, the driving skills etc etc I am the first to leap to the defence of my adopted country.

But not today. Now that summer has properly skidaddled out of here, we decided on a cosy night out at the cinema. Consulting Angloinfo, I noted that The Town was showing and being a massive Jon Hamm fan and having read all the brilliant reviews, we bolted down supper in record time, jumped in the car and hurtled off to Roquefort, as usual cutting it so fine that we arrived just as the film was about to start. Except it wasn't.

Having spent ten minutes searching for a parking space (a certain person wanted to be under a streetlight in deserted RLP because he was worried that our battered, scruffy jeep might look like a good prospect to a passing opportunist car ringer) we hurried to the entrance to find it in total darkness and all locked up.

Cussing in the freezing cold on the trudge back to the car, we consoled ourselves with the thought of a cosy stop off at a bar en route home...then we remembered that this is the Cote d'Azur, there are no cosy bars in this neck of the woods, just very expensive hotel bars or slightly shabby brightly lit atmosphere-less stop offs for a swift after work tipple. But no pubs with a log fire, some decent wines by the glass, a dimly lit ambience and a comfy sofa or two....no, nothing like that at all.

So our night out culminated in a trip to the garage to fill the car up (76 euros) before arriving home to the guffaws of the girls who said: 'But surely you know by now that everything here is closed on a Monday?' After two and a half years, I really should remember that Mondays and indeed every lunchtime is a no-go, no-trade total shutdown. I have checked Angloinfo again, and it clearly states that The Town was showing last Wednesday and Saturday, but definitely NOT Monday night. I am sure this has been sneakily ammended in the last hour.

The picture above, by the way, is of idyllic Bar sur Loup, without aforementioned bar....

Onto the curious case of the pet insurance fiasco. When we first arrived here with our menagerie of animals, we decided in our infinite wisdom to take out an insurance policy covering all the furry beloveds in case of accident or illness (this was pre-empted by Archie Smith, Norma and Tony's cute but acutely allergic Westie who has now had in the region of £40k worth of vets bills covered by Pet Plan.) How sensible we thought we were. In the spirit of cutting back this autumn, we decided that shelling out in excess of €1000 a year on the rudely healthy little rugrats was not strictly necessary so Iain emailed Generali to politely cancel our policy.

Cue a concerned phone call the next day from a Generali minion politely informing us that we can't cancel the insurance. If we refuse to pay, they will continue to take it from our bank account anyway, because we renewed the policy in August and so have to wait until August 2011 to cancel something that is not mandatory in any case. Is the world going mad? Ok, so what if all the animals die then? Well, in that case you need to produce a death certificate for each animal certified by a vet in order to cancel the policy. Cue much hilarity from Will, whose suggestion that we start a dead animal collection service locally was not greeted with total derision. As nan in Catherine Tate might say: 'What a %£*?ing liberty!' Except liberty is the one thing in short supply.

My mood has been lightened somewhat following a flurry of emails from C in London, who entertained and shocked me in equal measure with the story of how her just turned 16yo has been grounded for a month after being dropped off for a girlie sleepover in her PJs on Saturday night, only to change into her gladrags and head out to a Soho nightclub with all her friends, before catching the 5am nightbus home to sleepover friend's empty house (the parents, of course, had gone away for the weekend.) Having shared the story with Liv, she could only gasp: 'Wow, that is legendary - but I know I would have been grounded for life if I'd done that!' She is not wrong, so perhaps living in a pub-less, bar-less, cinema-less rural idyll is the least of my problems.