The Big Apple

I’m writing this sitting at JFK one leg down into three flights home and remembering all the great bits about our stay in New York.

But the story has to start with the stress filled journey getting to the airport, as nothing is ever simple in the Kershaw household. There we were all packed, fairly organised and waiting for the girls to come home from school so we could leave for Nice and our flight, which had recently been changed from 3pm to 5pm.

As I checked through passports, travel documents and many pieces of paper, I found the original booking and thought it might be useful to print off the updated flight times. Imagine my horror at 1.30pm when I logged onto the booking to see the original flight time 3pm flash up. After many minutes frantically scrolling through, it finally dawned on me that it wasn’t connecting NY flights to London that had been changed, it was my mum’s forthcoming May flight home from our house, which happened to also be at 3pm and have the same flight number!

Cue major panic as we bundled the cases, girls and dogs into the car, drove manically to Fi’s to turf out the dogs, who then started chasing our car off the drive in rain, leaving BSL precisely one hour before our flight was due to take off. We made it in 25 mental minutes, and after dumping them and the cases at kiss and fly, I parked and legged it complete with heavy hand luggage to the terminal, arriving just as check in was closing.

As we sat on the plane we worked out that less than an hour before, we were at home in meltdown mode. Amazing what you can achieve when the traffic is with you and the adrenaline is pumping. What a start to the trip!

Arriving at JFK, the girls were desperate to get into the city and watching their faces as the Manhattan skyline came into view was nothing short of magical. I think it is one of the world’s best views, it never gets any less exciting no matter how many times you have been to New York. We arrived at The Element Times Square West, a brand new eco-hotel which is part of the Starwood group, famous for the brilliant W hotel chain which I have stayed at many times.

It’s a more budget conscious, slightly less lux version of the W. Urban pared down utilitarian chic best describes it, and it’s a brilliant choice for anyone with a green leaning and a mid budget. Certain aspects are similar to the W....amazingly comfortable beds and pillows, fantastic Egyptian linens, plasma TVs and well appointed bathrooms. There are no overpriced mini bars, where moving a can of Pringles invites a $6 charge on your bill instantly, instead The Element boasts kitchenettes, so you can buy less expensive versions of the mini bar contents at the local mini mart.

They also do a great complimentary breakfast but you have to be up early to get the best choice of fresh fruit, bagels, muffins and hot breakfast. One niggle, no toasters which renders bagels and English muffins a bit redundant. Plus there is a great little apero each week night Monday to Thursday, where they lay out wine, Caesar salad and nibbles, again gratis to hotel guests. The gym is also well equipped and the hotel is so central to Times Square and mid town Manhattan that getting around is very easy. Check it out if you are heading to NYC...you won’t regret it. http://www.starwoodhotels.com/element/property/overview/index.html?

We did Top of the Rock at the Rockefeller Centre and had a fab view of the Empire State Building, which you don’t get if you are viewing from the ESB instead, took the Staten Island ferry to look at the Statue of Liberty and explored SoHo, Greenwich Village, Wall Street, West Village, Central Park, Fifth Ave, in fact all the usual haunts as well as spending most of the morning in Forever 21, a teen heaven which sells fashion at ridiculously low prices. As it was raining and it was Livvy’s 16th birthday, I relented and spent almost an hour in the changing rooms giving my opinion on their many dazzling outfits.

We headed to Abercrombie so the girls could have their photo taken with the topless hunk at the front door. Yyou may or may not be relieved to hear that I (reluctantly) passed on this photo opportunity myself. Then it was off to Tiffanys on 5th Ave, minus the croissant Audrey H had when she went, which was deemed too cheesy by far to re-enact. The marvellous assistant there helped the girls choose a necklace and a charm within budget to remember their trip by.

We also passed Ground Zero, which still has an eerie atmosphere and sends chills down the spine when you look at the vast open space amid all the other skyscrapers. A year before 9/11, I took my mum to the top of the Twin Towers to look at the views across the river and we wandered around the shopping mall immediately below. There is a very moving memorial in the West Village with hand painted tiles inscribed with messages to those who lost their lives that day, I defy anyone not to shed a tear while reading them.

We headed to the Mercer Kitchen for lunch in Soho and had a fab birthday celebration before spending the rest of the afternoon on foot while the girls pretended to be Gossip Girls and spent huge amounts of dollars. Other great finds include Sardis, a famous old theatreland restaurant a lot like Joe Allens where the walls are lined with caricatures of famous Broadway stars. Ever since Jimmy Cagney’s was stolen on the day he died, the owners have insisted on two identical caricatures, one of which is given to the star so that if one is stolen it is able to be replaced. Ruhlman’s, opposite the Rockefeller Centre, is another NYC stalwart, with a sunny terrace and great brasserie menu. The lobster rolls and fries were amazing.

Harrisons in Tribeca was buzzing at the weekend, it’s the closest New York has to a gastropub and the stand out dishes were the lightly fried skate and home-made gnocchi. The only place that was over-rated, touristy and uninspiring was Seaport in South Street.

Mother’s Day was spent wandering around West Village in the sunshine before we headed for the airport so that the guys could fly home and I could fly to Miami...but that’s another story for another day.

One brave lady

Just a short post today....It's easy to get caught up in the frivolity and petty silly stuff, worrying about things that in the great scheme don't really matter.

I am posting an article published yesterday in The Mirror, written by one of my Fleet Street colleagues, about her battle with cancer. It sounds depressing but Sue, who is not only a great writer but also a fair boss and a very kind and funny person, has managed to turn a brutal subject into a very honest, heart-warming and humorous - a strange word to use when talking about cancer - read.

Judge for yourselves. And good luck Sue.

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/top-stories/2011/03/23/sue-carroll-my-cancer-fight-mirror-columnist-opens-her-heart-over-pancreatic-tumour-115875-23009908/

The wonderful world of Disney

So it was that I left the rainy, cold Cote d’Azur for warm, sunny Paris. After five long days of relentless torrential downpours, it felt good to get off a plane in spring sunshine. It did feel wrong to be going sans kids to the world’s most famous playground but I soon dispensed with any guilt on arrival at the Disneyland Paris hotel.

You gotta love the Japanese...the lady in front of me was clicking away at the motorway exit signs for Disneyland and filming the motorway ahead on the hotel shuttle from the airport. Can you imagine what she was like once she actually got there?

We arrived at a pink palace which smells of baby’s bottoms (clean ones) and talcum powder. Someone in the know told me that every Disney venue in the world has the same ‘eau de Disney’ aroma which I guess is meant to transport you back in time to your childhood. As you can see from the photo, I made friends very quickly.

Following a sumptuous lunch and conference introduction, we were taken on a tour of the park. For tour, read being cajoled onto rollercoasters that in normal circumstances I would not dream of stepping anywhere near. My last rollercoaster ride was in Australia and I humiliated myself by crying and throwing up (aged 20, not my coolest moment) so how I found myself on Space Mountain 2 and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Peril is anyone’s guess. I can only say it was in the interests of appearing professional and doing my job properly. I emerged from both rides hoarse from screaming and had angry red fingernail digs in the palms of both hands...it certainly broke the ice with the rest of the press pack and I think I made quite an impression on Paul from the Express and the girl from Sky magazine who were sitting in front of me.

One of the highlights of the trip was managing to eat three four-course meals in the space of 24 hours, not including breakfast. I could never go on a cruise as when it is all laid out delectably in front of you, it is impossible to pick the sensible salad option and sail past the dessert trolley. Drastic measures were called for so on Saturday morning, following a fresh dump of late season snow, I headed off toute seule for a morning skiing. There are definite advantages to going it alone, even if you do look like Billy no mates...the highlights are...

• Being able to ski all morning without being forced to stop for a ‘rest’ every half a run or peeling off at the bar for a refuel every hour. Some people would see this as a lowlight.
• Playing Phoenix there and back without being told to turn it down/off.
• Being able to dance at the wheel, which involves bouncing the shoulders and nodding the head and singing so loudly that you are in danger of drowning out the lyrics with NO-ONE telling you to shut up or grow up.
• Driving like a rally star around the gorgeous alpine roads that lead to Greolieres and marvelling at the views from the ridge at the top.
• Getting sprayed by white mist as you drive through the Gorge du Loup past the waterfall which is so amazing that people stop dead in the middle of the road to admire it (you only ever notice it on the way home.)
• Dumping the skis on the terrace to pull up a sun lounger having done three fantastic hours and still being home in time for lunch.

What a perfect end to the week.

Lost in translation

Did I mention that I used to be the only French speaker in this family? Ergo, everyone was super impressed when I ordered coffee and pastries on ski trips to the Alps or asked where the toilets were in flawless French. Now I have children who correct my grammar while having a bloody good laugh at my expense.

I was about to send an email responding to our friends Eric and Corinne’s wedding invitation in the village next month. They took over our local pizzeria 18 months after it shut down and turned it into the perfect local restaurant – great pizzas, fantastic plat du jours, decent wine, amazing views from the terrace and a very warm welcome always. And very best of all, walking distance from home. I must have been overcome at the thought of going to a real French wedding, I have no other excuse for getting it so wrong.

Here’s what I thought I had written: ‘I am looking forward to your wedding. We will bring the girls to the ceremony and for the celebration drink at Michelangelo but then they will go home (subtext: leaving us to party late into the night.’) Literal translation: ‘I cannot wait to party at your wedding. The girls will come to the town hall and then the drink will flow at Michelangelo!’ I was obviously thinking aloud. Between tears of laughter as she read over my shoulder, Liv said, Oh mum, you sound like such a party animal....all I can say is old habits die hard.

This was on top of an attack of maternal guilt earlier. I had already told the girls I was going to Paris at the end of the month on a job and they were grrring through gritted teeth. After last summer’s visit, it is their favourite city in the world, although I’m sure New York in a couple of weeks will offer Paris some competition. Then today I was asked to do another job in Disneyland Paris next week. We have never done Disneyland Paris together, or Disneyland Florida (that was another job, or journos holiday as they put it so disparagingly) so the fact that their 40-something mum is going to hang out with Minnie and Mickey when they have never been is a bit of an issue. Clearly I will have to seek out famous animals for autographs.

I have never lived down the fact that I went to Lapland twice to meet Santa (purely in the interests of work of course) while the girls were left languishing at home. We spent the following Christmas in Lapland en famille out of guilt that I had met the ‘real’ Santa not once but twice, while they had to make do with stolen glimpses of an impostor on Christmas Eve.

Before I am reported to social services for neglect I should point out that before they reached 10, they had clocked up serious air miles in Mauritius, San Francisco, Canada, the Virgin Islands and various Caribbean destinations, to the point where they preferred camping trips in Dorset and the New Forest to long jaunts from Heathrow.

On the other hand, their mother never tires of jumping on a plane. This month is shaping up to be a good one...Paris, Paris, New York and Miami hot on each others’ tails. Work, work, pleasure (NY is for Liv’s 16th birthday) then work. It’s a lovely feeling to offer your 16yo the choice of how to celebrate and she eschews the big crazy party with all her mates for a family city break (although if I were her I would have tried for both. She has a lot to learn.)

Working in some of the most glamorous cities on the planet can hardly be described as work in the true sense of the word. Especially when you are staying at the W in South Beach and The Element, a new eco friendly Starwood hotel in Times Square. After a chilly winter, I’m looking forward to Miami particularly with Elle Macpherson and the latest batch of BNTM finalists. I hear the surf is pretty good too, but of course it will be observed from the balcony whilst writing up interviews rather than tested in the flesh....

Today’s pic is of the pool this afternoon in spring sunshine although it wasn’t quite bikini climes. Nonetheless it had the desired effect when I posted it on Facebook earlier....lots angry from Tunbridge Wells postings. We were just getting into the spring vibe on Sunday when Tony and Shan came for lunch....it was so hot we ate on the terrace and only came in at sunset when it got a bit shivery. Since then there’s been a bite in the air which is not really cricket for almost mid March. I am trying to fly in the face of it (dresses, gladiators, goose bumps) but it’s not easy.

Half term rules

It has its downsides...kids laying in bed until way past noon in their PJs fixated to the internet in bedrooms resembling a war zone, gazillions of kids’ friends round dominating the sofas and TV, the fridge being emptied on a daily basis due to permanent munching from certain younger members of the family, and one much older one, but the upside of school holidays when you work from home is that you feel like you are on holiday too. Don’t know how I will cope when the girls leave home...

We had the pleasure of Clare, Nick and lovely Miss Ruby visiting from Parker Towers in Twickenham for a few days so we headed off for some skiing in gorgeous conditions last Monday. Clare eschewed the pistes for a deckchair at the 504, and actually had the nerve to tell me she was exhausted from all the fresh air as we drove home that evening. That evil little drag TK Cheiron had its way with new visitors as usual, chucking Ruby off halfway up, which meant Nick had to leap off mid-way too. Hasty arrangements were made to come down two different routes and pick them up en route and rather hilariously, Handyman inadvertently chose the black run while I took the gentle red with the girls.

Naturally, no-one managed to find each other, which meant a regrouping coffee break after our second run. Regular readers of this column will know that handyman and skiing are not a natural fit. He once said on the chair lift on a beautiful sunny, New Year’s Day with no crowds and fresh powder everywhere: ‘Now, in a perfect world, I would be lying on a sun lounger on the beach in Barbados, not freezing to death on this lift.’ He was deadly serious. And he never chooses to ski a black, ever. So it will come as no great shock to hear that I found him slumped in a deckchair, nursing a coffee and complaining that his knees had just been shot to pieces by the moguls.

I suspect it was all an elaborate ruse to enable lengthy recuperation at the restaurant for virtually the rest of the day, gamely dressed up as ‘keeping our non-skiing guest company.’ You can see from the photo above that those in the know at Greolieres had advance warning of Iain's brave rescue mission.

The following day was a walking-the-dogs-on-the-beach day, which was just a ruse for lunching at the fabulous Brocherie II in la Napoule, where a stupendous five course menu marin accompanied by a few bottles of Chateau Maime on the terrace watching the yachts bob in the harbour can easily see you from lunch into very late afternoon indeed. Wednesday was spent in Saint-Paul de Vence admiring the beautiful views from the Colombe d’Or and tucking into a mid-afternoon snack of home-made crepes. Fair to say we all ate our own bodyweight in five days so the weekend has been spent trying to regain some sort of normal routine which doesn’t involve eating every two hours.

Tonight being the Oscars, it felt right to go and see The King’s Speech in Cannes this afternoon – a truly great film that deserves to sweep the board later in LA. Great films are harder to make now – if it’s not a sequel or a comic strip, funding is notoriously difficult to secure so the fact that this low budget Brit effort, which cost a modest £10million to make, has already taken close to $100 million at the US box office is remarkable. I interviewed Colin when he played Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, and Helena when she starred in Henry VIII, and both were very normal, unassuming, down to earth individuals in a business where possessing one of those qualities is a rarity, let alone all three. Go Colin, go Helena and go, go, go Geoffrey.

Highlights of my week

These are the questions currently burning through my grey matter (hate that word grey, you will see why in a minute.)

1. Why is it that when I really concentrate hard on speaking French, it backfires on me in a spectacularly embarrassing way?

2. Why is it that when you try and do a good turn for someone, it comes back to bite you on the bum?

3. Why am I getting grey hairs?


Yesterday I went to pick up Issy from a birthday sleepover in Grasse. Many of the mums I have got to know in the last two and a half years speak no English at all, which is great for me, forcing me to practise my rusty A level French which has, in my humble view, come on in leaps and bounds since I moved here. It’s not so great however for the 11-year-old fluent French speaker stood at my side. Sometimes I practise what to say in certain situations in my head and it comes out beautifully. So much so that the other person assumes I have a far greater grasp than is strictly true and rattles back at me so fast that I am literally lost in translation.

I find when in doubt saying d’accord a lot, nodding sympathetically and laughing every so often usually saves the day and gets me out of anything I don’t really understand pretty effectively, except when someone asks me a question (at which point I just look like a stumbling village idiot) or says something fairly serious. So as Christine told me yesterday that Issy had been doubled up with stomach ache that morning, it didn’t look good when I nodded and laughed. I did realise my mistake some 10 seconds later once I’d hurriedly translated mal a ventre, but it wasn’t quick enough to prevent the accusation of being an evil, unfeeling mum being levelled as soon as we got in the car.

Then today, out walking the dogs in the village, I spotted the cat lady sitting at her window and had a lovely long chat with her which quite simply flowed. I used words I didn’t even know I knew and cat lady didn’t nod back and say d’accord so I have to assume she understood me. I also seem to be brilliantly fluent with at least two glasses of wine inside me which is a very good argument against any sort of detox. Not that I am considering anything of the kind.

I’m over being a good Samaritan too after an invisible cast iron post too it upon itself to smash into the car bumper last week. Liv spotted two of her mates on the bus in front of us at Opio, who face a long walk in the dark when they get off in our village so I told her to text them and tell them we would meet them below the perfume factory and give them a lift home. Sadly, the movement sensors weren’t working on the car on this particular occasion so I didn’t have any prior warning of the low fire hydrant until I clumped it in reverse, splitting the bumper on the back of our already very bashed up jeep. Still, at least the boys didn’t have to walk back in the dark. See above for the beauty I used to drive, sans any bumps and grazes, before I moved to France. I was so sad at leaving it behind that I have a whole photo file dedicated to it, and still visit it occasionally on Mel's drive when I'm back in the UK.

Perhaps more annoying than all of this is the discovery of the odd (OK, rather more prevalent than I would like to admit) grey hair making an appearance cunningly disguised as a highlight. Given that my roots are now two inches long, it’s rather obvious that the light reflecting strands at my roots are not the honey blonde I covet but a rather dangerous steely colour. They tend to show up most when I’m driving and checking my rear view mirror, then annoyingly disappear by the time I’ve legged it to the bathroom mirror to dispense with them. Is it true that for every one you pull out, another three grow back? If so, I should have a shock streak by next weekend. I have a feeling I might need more than rear sensors to prevent any further car incidents...and if you see the driver of a black jeep paying rather too much attention to the rear view mirror and not enough to the windscreen, do yourself a favour and give her a very wide berth.

Un petit histoire about our French roots

Something funny happened at the apartment today, and it made me realise just how much we will miss it once it's sold. Then I thought, really it has been so instrumental in our move to France that I should share a bit of the history with you and perhaps finish off with the funny bit.

In 2003, feeling a bit flush and as usual, the money burning a hole in our pockets, we decided the time was right to buy a holiday home. We had looked at Marbella four years earlier but the horrific multi-lane motorway that passes within inches of the coastline and which necessitates walking to the beach through underground tunnels not dissimilar to the Bullring at Waterloo put us off. Then we bought a beautiful 400year old Grade 2 listed cottage in Herts which needed major renovation so all second home plans were shelved indefinitely.

Eight years ago, we resumed our search and ended up putting an offer in on a beautiful but bijou and very overpriced fisherman's cottage in Padstow (or Padstein, as Rick's burgeoning business empire has led to it being renamed.) By the time we drove from Cornwall to our friend's house in Devon, and realised that the entire house would comfortably fit in their kitchen, we had withdrawn our offer and it was back to the drawing board.

We had a simple conversation...where we would chose to go at least half a dozen times a year and never get bored (or have to endure insufferable rainy weather?) The answer was the South of France, a shorter hop by plane than the five hour drive to the West Country and within three months, we were the proud owners of a beautiful off-plan budget-busting apartment with spectacular views, as you can see above, of the bay of Cannes and the Esterel hills.

We spent so many holidays there in and out of season, made friends both French and English, and not once did we ever feel ready to go home. Not even after spending a very rainy cold Christmas and Boxing Day holed up watching French TV and taking it in turns to oversee the girls riding their new scooters around the underground car park. And the best bit, the bit we hadn't even known about as we signed on the dotted line, was that when it rains in Mandelieu in winter, it's likely to be snowing in the ski resorts a 90-minute drive away, so no reason to ever feel depressed about rain again.

Fast forward seven crazy years, and the apartment and the fun we had there was in no small way responsible for us selling up and upping sticks to move here permanently in 2008. A decision none of us have ever regretted, although the girls do now make the mistake of thinking that the streets of London are paved with gold rather than dog poo, litter and fag butts.

Now that the time has come to sell, mainly because we live half an hour away therefore making holidays there a bit redundant, we have decided to max it out whenever possible and spent last weekend there, walking the dogs on the beach, admiring the view and enjoying the fact that there is no internet so we actually have to make conversation and go out instead of working.

Unfortunately the hot water tank was on the blink and after the bath I so looked forward to ended up being a lukewarm puddle, we made a rendezvous with Savelys for this afternoon. The guy arrived and said it was probably best to service the boiler and give it a good clean. I was busy writing a feature when he mentioned that he had found a DVD on top of the boiler. He left it on the side face down and dusty while I carried on working obliviously.

An hour later, the problem was cured and I signed off the work and said goodbye. As I was clearing up the dust I noticed the DVD sitting there, and flicked it over expecting it to be one of Issy's Legally Blonde movies. I was 50% right....it was Des Blacks et Des Blondes and in case you are in any doubt about the content, there was a busty blonde pouting on the front wearing very little in the way of clothes. And it wasn't Reece Witherspoon.

I rang Handyman in a state of shock crossed with hysterical laughter..I am so glad I didn't realise while the engineer was still there, imagine trying to react to that in French! He feigned surprise and begged me to bring it home...naturally it ended up in the bin...and the only reason he is off the hook is because the title was in French (although I guess the dialogue is the last thing on anyone's mind.)

My lovely friend Jess sent me a message yesterday telling me about her great friend who has just moved to Nice for the next few years, and who knows no-one here. I rememember when I arrived here and didn't speak to a soul outside of our house for the first three months. It's so horrible and you think you'll never make friends so I urged her to pass on my details so we can meet for a coffee. Her name is Mrs Goblet (actually it is much more glamorous than that but Goblet is definitely in there) and I somehow think we are going to get on famously. Ellie, if you're reading this, get in touch!