Out of breath

I've just noticed that it's nearly two months since I last posted on my blog. What can I say, life has been a wee bit busy what with work, excellent ski conditions which have encouraged the odd afternoon of snowboarding action and the little matter of my book Breathing Out, which has just been published after two and a half years in the making.In fact, the picture on the left neatly ticks both those boxes, as this is exactly what the sky looked like from my most recent cheeky two hour snowboard in the mountains.

All the hard work, the many proof reads, the minor layout blips that threatened to derail my sanity, they have all been worth it to hold that very precious 172 pages in my hand. The cover that started life as a very bad sketch in my notebook (art was never my strong point) was interpreted beautifully and somewhat telepathically by Peter at Bespoke Book Covers as he managed to create the very image I had in my head. It has been a labour of love and a testament to how something that was the very worst thing to happen to me can be turned into something positive and a force for good. If it helps one person get through the same nightmare journey feeling a little bit empowered and in control, then my job is done. If it makes people laugh too, even better.

It couldn't have happened without my wonderful friends and family, along with support from great friends in my business. The fact that Elle Macpherson and Amanda Holden have endorsed Breathing Out is nothing short of amazing, along with Simone Laubscher, my wonderful nutritionist whose guidance and sound words got me to where I am now, feeling fit, healthy and ready for anything, even snowboarding, old fool that I am. And Piers Morgan, my showbiz boss from too many years ago to count, kindly retweeted it to his four million followers on Twitter.

This Friday, there will be a celebration and launch at Le Donjon, the fab bistro that has become the heart and soul of our village. We will drink Champagne, eat Thomas's delicious canapes and I will sign as many books as possible. Many friends are flying in from London to join my French crowd and I dare say it will be a struggle not to lose my cool. Waterproof mascara at the ready!

Vive la difference....les rosbifs fight back

I read an interesting feature in The Times at the weekend. It was written by Muriel Demarcus, a Parisian who has spent the last 10 years living in London and it highlighted the differences - and in the writer’s view - many of the downsides to living in the UK and being English as opposed to being French and living in France.

It got me thinking about what I would write as an Englishwoman living in France. Like the writer, I too have had a 10 year relationship with my adopted home country, having spent years coming to our apartment during every school holiday until we made the move to the Côte d’Azur.

I arrived with my rose tinted glasses on, naively believing that life would be the proverbial armful of crusty baguettes accompanied by a constant supply of sunshine, year-round sports and languorous days by the pool sipping rosé. It has been all those things to be fair. But there is an awful lot of other stuff that I didn’t factor in.

School. The French education system cares about one thing and one thing only. Results. My girls have always known their position in the class hierarchy at the international section of their French secondary school and their moyen - average grade per subject - is published online to keep them on their toes. Most tests are marked out of 20 and while a grade of 12 or 13 would have me piling effusive praise on the girls given that most of their subjects are being taught in French, from the teacher, more often than not it would merely elicit: ‘Could do better,’ or ‘Must try harder.’ I find the general negativity and lack of praise hard to handle.

Shortly after starting school here, Livvy came home astonished at the fact that one of her classmates had been belted across the back of the head with a heavy text book by a teacher for daring to pick up a ruler he had dropped on the floor. On another occasion, a classroom assistant dragged a boy suspected of bullying across the primary school playground by his ear. In the UK, you would be suspended for that. In France, c’est normale. On the plus side, both girls are completely bi-lingual and studying for A levels at her British curriculum international school is a breeze for Livvy following the rigours, discipline and relentless testing from four years in the French system.

Business. Getting a business off the ground here requires nothing short of a miracle and nerves of steel. I left my busy, dynamic and successful career as a showbiz writer in London to find that it was nigh on impossible to generate anything like the workload I enjoyed before. This is despite high profile events like Cannes Film Festival and Monte-Carlo TV Festival taking place a stone’s throw from my front door. They are great fun, but not enough to sustain an annual wage. And with the auto entrepreneur, or freelance, status recently having the upper earnings level reduced to something approaching €20,000 a year, unless you start a SARL or limited company at vast set up costs, you’re scuppered unless you work for a French company or work for the government, as a significant percentage of the population do here. Don’t even get me started on social charges.

Health. Having become intimately acquainted with the medical establishment in France, I can only say good things about the standard of care, speed and efficiency of treatment. My local hospital is scrupulously clean, spacious and friendly (the receptionist always remembers my name at each appointment.) Having a nursing office in the village means you don’t tie the doctor’s surgery up with blood tests, dressing changes and other basic medical requirements. If I need a GP appointment, my doctor picks up his own phone and slots me in within a day or two.

Lifestyle. Honestly, there’s not much to dislike about being a 40 minute drive from the nearest ski resort and 30 minutes from the beach. Our surroundings are like a ready-made adventure playground of cycle and running routes whose beauty takes your breath away. The river valley, gorge, waterfalls and dramatic cliff faces provide the best possible backdrop for any kind of exercise.

So like Muriel, who is happy to stay in London, I have no desire to up sticks and return to the UK just yet, despite the promises of economic recovery and the fact that certain aspects of my life would be very much simpler if I did. Besides, there aren’t too many places where you can sit outside for Sunday brunch in glorious warm sunshine in a T shirt in early January.

Happy new year! A week late. That's my only resolution in the can then, as not being late was top of my list for this year. I'm not sure why I haven't had time to update the blog as the last couple of weeks have been a happy melee of carol concerts, drinks parties, egg nog, christmas markets,a STUPENDOUS Christmas lunch, a second stupendous post-Christmas Christmas dinner last weekend (thanks Rob and Greg) and not much in the way of work. It's jolly hard work being a party animal.

I have to admit that the moment New Year's Day dawns, however, all Christmas cheer is banished back to the battered carrier bags in the shed for another 11 months. Why does it take twice as long to undress the tree as it does to deck it?

And so to 2014 and new opportunities. All of a sudden work is looking rather inviting in a month that is usually morgue like. January is all about the yachting industry and EastEnders. It's not often you see those words in the same sentence, unless you count Sid Owen quaffing Champagne on board a floating gin palace at last year's Cannes Film Festival.

Getting back into work mode is always helped by the girls going back to school. No more lie-ins til noon, unmade beds for days on end and a fridge which is permanently grazed upon and perpetually empty apart from the oddments of cheese wrapped in foil left over from Christmas.

We managed to get a few things done over the Christmas period, including sorting out both our office spaces and stocking up on Chianti, Prosecco, parmesan and taleggio on a day trip to Bordighera last week. What an amazing little gem, just over an hour's drive from here. As you cross into northern Italy from the beautiful last stretch of Cote d'Azur, the landscape becomes slightly more industrial and agricultural, with row upon row of greenhouses dotted across the hills just back from the coast.

Ventimiglia is the first stop, although not for me since the time Norma and I got towed away on market day and spent five hours in 40 plus degrees of summer heat and €400 getting our cars out of the pound. Usually we carry right on past Ventimiglia, flicking our own V sign as we pass, and stop at San Remo instead.

Let me tell you about Bordighera, which you can see from these pictures is tres mignon. There is a fab alimentari selling wine, cheese, parma ham and other specialities at rock bottom (compared to la France) prices so you can stock up on arrival and it's already been a worthwhile trip. Then you head into the old town, where the winding narrow streets boast trattorias and very decent restaurants serving fab vongole, ragu and all manner of other northern Italian cuisine at around half the price of my favourite (very authentic) Italian here, da Laura in Cannes.

We wandered down to the beach and ordered aperos at la Reserve, situated on a teak deck overlooking the sea which filled up within half an hour of our arrival. The drinks arrived with a platter of delicious antipasti for which there was no charge. Let me say that again...NO CHARGE! And you wonder why I love Italy so much. The promenade is traffic free and runs alongside several beachside eateries on stilts where you can still order lunch at 3pm on a Sunday. Talk about revolutionary. Is it any wonder we are returning in two weeks to celebrate handyman's birthday in true Italian style?

Me and Mandela

It was 15 years ago on my first trip to South Africa that I met Nelson Mandela. I can't actually believe I am writing those words. Of all the amazing famous, non-famous, infamous and extraordinary people I have met and interviewed over the last two decades, meeting Nelson Mandela was the highlight.

I had just got back from a work trip to New York when, that same afternoon, the phone rang and it was my friend Sharon Ring, who then edited OK magazine. Would I like to go to Cape Town on a press trip to mark the opening of the Table Bay hotel at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront? Hmmm, let me think for a minute...February in freezing London town or an all expenses paid trip visiting the wine region of Stellenbosch, the Cape of Good Hope, Table Mountain, rugby with the Springboks, Boulders Beach where the penguins live and many other iconic sights while staying in a brand new five star hotel? Reader, it was a tough one.

The evening we arrived, we went out on a catamaran to watch the sunset and we could see Robben Island quite clearly in the distance. I had just read Long Walk to Freedom, one of the most inspiring books ever, and seeing that place with my own eyes was quite surreal having just read all about Mandela's long incarceration there.

We visited the prison and were shown around by one of Mandela's fellow former inmates. Words can't do it justice, it was a lesson in how indomitable the human spirit can be.

So to find myself, a couple of days later, at a lunch at the hotel with the then President Mandela as the guest of honour was a buzz that has yet to be equalled. A towering giant of a man, he was taller than I expected but it was his aura that made him larger than life, he just filled the room. He gave a heartfelt speech about how pleased he was to welcome visitors to his homeland and how he hoped that tourism would continue to bring people from all over the world to South Africa. It was a short, humble speech and as the deafening applause rang out afterwards, he beamed that big, big smile.

He came over to meet the international press corps to say hello. I was so nervous I could barely breathe. The other journalists, all seasoned travel writers, felt exactly the same. We all felt we were in the presence of greatness, it is impossible to put it any differently.

Since that trip in 1998, I have been back to South Africa many times, to Johannesburg and Cape Town and the townships of Soweto and Khayelitsha. There is no doubt that while South Africa still has many problems, there is a feeling of hope among the people, a passionate pride in their country and a joie de vivre that I haven't encountered anywhere else. That is the true legacy of Nelson Mandela.

Race Day

For the last few weeks, it has been hot. As in pool hot, bikini hot even. The mildest autumn for many years has seen temperatures in the mid-70s most days since mid October. We have only just put the quilt on the bed and still have no heating on in our bedroom at night. Given that it is now mid-November, I was secretly disappointed at the thought of a delayed ski station opening, as they are usually ready for business in the Alpes Maritimes from the second week in December. But with night time temperatures of minus 15 forecast for Auron later this week, two days of torrential rain and a light dusting of snow already visible at Courmettes a few kilometres from here, it seems my fears are allayed even if our lovely late, late bonus summer has ended rather abruptly.

The weather played a pivotal role in the Nice-Cannes marathon too. As we drove to the relay points to check in for our legs early on Sunday morning, Liv in Villeneuve-Loubet and me at Cap d’Antibes, the winds were already gathering pace. The atmosphere, as always at any marathon, was phenomenal with locals braving the tornado style winds to come and cheer the runners along the route. There aren’t many things more uplifting than running in or cheering on a marathon. You really see human spirit at its best. We saw the elite runners go by as we had coffee by the beach and boy, those guys were fast.

Livvy arrived after her 8.1km leg looking pretty good considering she hadn’t been able to train for two weeks and had spent a week trying out uni life on campus at Nottingham. The joy of youth. I, on the other hand, had trained my little legs off in the lead up and felt quietly confident about the hilly section of the Cap. But the wind as we rounded into Juan les Pins was so strong, it blew one of my earphones out and whipped pine needles, dirt, sand and seawater across the course and into my face. It was impossible to see for a few minutes and everyone was running blind. Crash barriers had been flattened and this usually tranquil corner of the Med looked like a scene from The Perfect Storm.

I can’t pretend I wasn’t elated to see the next relay runner waiting at Golfe Juan for the final 6 km stretch into Cannes. The weather certainly played a part in making our Mougins Girls team finish time slower than we hoped, at 4 hours 08 minutes and 30 seconds but in the circumstances, just finishing the race at all in winds that strong was an achievement. One that was celebrated with a team photo, above, followed by huge tuna burger, fries and a bottle of Sauvignon blanc at New York New York in Cannes. Big congrats to Bel and James, who achieved amazing times in challenging conditions, with a sub 4 hr 30 PB for Bel.

With training now over until I feel the compulsion to sign up for another race, it feels quite lovely to loaf guilt-free on the sofa and veg out to the annual guilty pleasure that is I’m a Celebrity. Matthew Wright and I used to work on showbiz news together almost 20 years ago so I have to declare an interest in watching him gag and gamely chew on during the first Bushtucker trial. Go Matthew.

University Challenge

It seems like only yesterday that I was walking around with a beautiful blonde baby girl on my hip who was addicted to Teletubbies and loved sitting in on interviews in the corner of my office (mainly for the Quavers that I would bribe her with to keep quiet.) When that failed, she would be back on my hip, gurgling happily as I paced around the garden jiggling her like mad while trying to finish a phoner with a celeb before she got bored and kicked off with the screaming.

This week, that beautiful blonde baby and I are off to look at universities…how did this happen? I don’t feel any older, certainly not old enough to have a daughter who is leaving in home in less than 12 months.

It beckons a new chapter chez Kershaw, one where Issy is alone in having to put up with parents who still like to dance around the house (just stopping short of twerking), sing the wrong words to everything that comes on the radio and horrors, sometimes still hold hands while watching TV or walking the dogs. She is not amused and is already planning a jail cell style calendar marking off the days until she too can flee the nest (another four years, which might as well be a life sentence in her eyes given that there is no time off for good behaviour.)

The arguments over who has borrowed a new mascara/Top Shop knickers/Ugg boots without asking will be a distant memory and I suspect we will long for the days when we couldn’t even hold a conversation downstairs for being drowned out by hormonal banshee style screaming and insults being traded in between loud slamming of bedroom doors.

A bit of me is excited about always having a good excuse to jump on a plane back to the UK to pay Livvy a visit. (This has nothing to do with any shopping/socialising opportunities whatsoever.) She has already asked me to compile a recipe book of her favourite dishes to take with her, although this could be a red herring to allay my fear of her existing on daily MacDonalds, KFC, greasy spoon fry ups and baked beans. I am going one step further and buying her a spiraliser, which turns courgettes, sweet potatoes, apples and all sorts of other fruit and veg into spaghetti or noodles. Something tells me this might not get as much use as the corkscrew but I’ve got to try.

In the meantime, there is nothing like the prospect of a chick flying the nest to make you realise that you really just need to make the most of them while they are on loan to you, screaming matches, hovel like bedrooms and make-up caked bathrooms and all.

Run rabbit run

Every year since we moved to France I have toyed with the idea of signing up to run the Nice - Cannes marathon. It is supposed to be one of the most beautiful courses in the world, snaking along the Cote d'Azur coastline and taking in the sublime Cap d'Antibes but one thing stops me. The training, oh the training. And after two London marathons - which incidentally were two of the best days of my life - I'm not sure my poor 40-something knees can cope with a third.

But this year, thanks to Mougins School and Michelle Johnson, triathlete and sports teacher extraordinaire, who asked me to join their marathon relay team, I am getting the best of both worlds; running in the marathon but only for 10.8 km before passing the baton onto Livvy for the next leg.

I was getting very excited about having my cake and eating it until Livvy casually dropped into the conversation last night the fact that Mougins historically do brilliantly and always get placed as one of the fastest finishers. Suddenly my running-free summer of drinking rose and swimming a few laps every so often instead of pounding the streets three times a week looks like it wasn't such a good idea after all.

This morning, I set off with my running playlist on my phone to do my first 5km for some time. The first kilometre was hideous, but 10 minutes in, my legs remembered that they have done this before and it started to get more enjoyable. Calvin Harris, Daft Punk and The Police helped me along and by the last sprint (past the pompiers, so it had to be a sprint rather than a stagger) I was feeling on top of the world.

The last race I ran was the 10k in Grasse last year, a few months out of treatment. The buzz was indescribable so I am looking forward to that feeling again. It's great having a race to train for. I am going to run hard over the next six weeks so I can complete my leg as fast as possible so I don't let the team down. I am going to log my times and distances on Facebook so that I can follow my progress...hopefully the thought of public FB humiliation if I don't get quicker will be incentive enough. You have been warned.

Last weekend, I wrote a very personal piece for The Times Weekend section about how I changed my diet to cope with chemotherapy. I have been overwhelmed by the amazing response from friends, family and even strangers. It was a cathartic piece to write, and having had the all clear from my recent second year control tests (yay) it feels like I have drawn a thick black line underneath that experience. Closure, maybe. A good feeling, definitely.