Happy

I'm going to keep this short and sweet. We have had a mega Christmas with lots of visitors, Christmas markets, champagne, card games, Perudo, even charades. Oh, and lots and lots of food. It's at this time of the year that I think how lucky I am to have such amazing friends and family. Christmas saw 11 of us Kershaws, Hockneys and Bradleys around the same table....amazing.

Tonight we are heading to my favourite restaurant (of all time) Ecole des Filles for a gastronomic New Year's Eve celebration with a few great friends. In a minute I am going to put on my make up to the sound of Nihils Help Our Souls, the Urban Contact Remix. If you are feeling a little party pooped and in need of a little lift or a second wind, play this track, it is an infectious disco tune that I promise will make you want to dance.

Then I am going to pour myself a glass of this little beauty and raise it to the year that was 2014. It wasn't perfect but it certainly had its moments. My wish for 2015 is that everyone I love has a brilliant, fun, healthy, laughter filled year. I'm not going to waste time worrying about things I can't change. I am going to embrace and enjoy every moment of this wonderful life. No, I haven't been drinking but that is about to change in a matter of minutes.

Bonne annee tout le monde and here's to the next 12 months.

xxx

She's leaving home

Actually, she left two months ago. It seems surreal that after all the years of being there whenever I was needed, wiping grazes, helping with homework, organising fairy themed birthday parties and refereeing many sibling spats, suddenly Child Number One is living 1,000 miles away and getting on just fine without us.

Why wouldn't she? She is in London, relishing the ease of jumping on the tube to the West End, going to see a film on a whim or going clubbing when student funds allow but with a safety net of family and friends who look out for her, cook her the occasional Sunday roast and to whom she can turn in a crisis.

That said, letting her go is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. Dropping her off at the airport with Handyman so that he could settle her into her halls, I somehow managed to stay chirpy and chatty until we said goodbye. Back in the car, I turned on the radio and on came a song she used to play on the piano and sing along to. I cried all the way home.

It brings into sharp focus the wonderful things about parenthood that we are all guilty of taking for granted sometimes.....the piano practises that make you stop whatever you are doing and sometimes bring a tear to your eye, the stupid jokes and banter at the dinner table, even just sitting down together to watch a TV drama or I'm a Celebrity. Working from home and not having the banter of an office, I really miss our after school chats, coffees and lazy weekend breakfasts. Her room is permanently hotel standard tidy, and I hate it.

We have got used to skype calls every few days and Whatsapp for saying good night, good morning, love you and showing each other what we're having for supper. I was expecting an alarming overload of pot noodles and pasta to be honest, but she is whipping up soups, smoothies, curries and shepherds pies like a mini Nigella. My dinner time rants about the evils of junk food, which I was convinced were in vain, have clearly paid off (although she did confess to a Pot Noodle/Gossip Girl marathon with Beaux, her best friend from primary school, recently. And she does have a fridge full of cider and Baileys in her room.)

We went to visit three weeks ago and I filled her fridge with M&S, manna from heaven for an impoverished student. I really think it takes distance, a tight budget and a bit of struggling for kids to realise what they also take for granted when they live at home. I now have a brilliant reason to flit back to London more often for a catch up with the girl who is embracing the next chapter of her life.

Vancouver

It's Saturday, it's raining and there is a low rumbling electric storm which even Talullah and Oscar do not want to go out in so I don't feel remotely guilty about lying in bed reading the papers, supplements and all the news stories I've missed this week until 10.30am. Yes, not a misprint, 10.30am. I have not had a lay in like this since my teens (correction, since the night after amFAR in May, but the less said about that the better.)

On a rainy miserable day, not that we get many, it seems only right to talk about sunnier days. The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster of lovely assignments in Monaco, Saint Tropez and Cannes for OnboardOnline. The competition for top highlight is fierce...breakfast on the Superyacht Ulysses, cocktails at the new Yacht Club in Monaco, champagne at Byblos, riding at James Bond style speeds in a military rib used by the French SAS across the gulf of Saint-Tropez...but the prize event of the last month has to be my trip to Vancouver on a rather lovely TV job.

Arriving at The Loden, a chic, friendly hotel which even had yoga mats in the rooms, and knowing I was heading back home in little over 48 hours time, the best way to fight mid-afternoon jet lag seemed to be to go on a bike ride. The hotel had an assortment of bikes ready and waiting in the lobby and within minutes, I was cycling the couple of blocks to the waterfront. The skyline reminded me of a mini Manhattan but with the welcome addition of cycle lanes threading around the harbour, marina and into Stanley Park.

That night, we ate at Cardero's on Coal Harbour Quay, a buzzing bistro and bar with a suspended terrace over the water offering phenomenal views across the Pacific Ocean. Blankets were provided in case it got chilly but the late summer evening sunshine kept temperatures high enough not to need one. They bill themselves as all about fish and this is no idle boast. The West Coast fish tacos were sublime, only eclipsed by the roasted sablefish, a lot like cod, in a miso-sake marinade. This dish gave the black miso cod at E&O a run for its money, it literally melted in my mouth, no chewing required. I am drooling as I write this. We ordered some wok broccolini (tender stemmed broccoli with a fancy ending) and the way it was served has revolutionised broccoli chez moi. Steamed and then finished lightly in a wok in the holy trinity of red chilli, garlic and ginger along with soy and honey, it was delicious and is now the only way I want to eat it.

Interviews done the following day left us a day to explore so we walked to Gastown, the city's oldest quarter with a quaint Soho/boho feel downtown boasting some rather lovely boutiques including oak + fort, where I chose not to leave empty handed. A walk along the coastline, fringed with pine trees to The Cactus Club Cafe on Beach Avenue brought more culinary joy, although it has to be noted that their fish tacos, while good, were not as good as Cardero's.

I could go on but the storm has stopped, the sun has just shown its face and Talullah is now staring at me with what Issy used to call poppydug eyes so needs must.

Bye bye Eel Pie

After two months travelling around Europe, we are almost at the end of 2014's epic summer road trip. Biarritz was a blast but surfing in July feels like a long time ago now. Next stop was Spain and a journey that took us through Breaking Bad style arid wilderness skirting the Pyrenees and heading through the centre of Spain to the coast near Alicante.

The weather was scorching, the beach beckoned as did the beautiful medieval town of Guadalest, above, and we had some great nights at El Paripe, a cool little tapas bar on a whitewashed rooftop which served amazing calamari and padrons every bit as good as the ones at Bar Jean. Another favourite was La Paletta, a modest little restaurant where the delicious food and friendly service ensured it was packed every night and impossible to get a table without booking. And La Mary in Alicante would give the coolest bistro in Soho a run for its money (and charge you less than half the price.)

Next stop was the UK and a two day drive back up through Spain and France was borne with such patience by Oscar and Tallullah, who were cosily and tightly ensconced amongst cases, toiletries, a new set of kitchen knives, teaspoons, books, wine, sunglasses, you name it. They were amazingly well behaved despite queues caused by the tail end of Hurricane Bertha putting paid to ferry crossings that evening.

We have spent the last three weeks in not so sunny Herts...naturally we missed the UK heatwave by about 24 hours...how typical...but there has been something quite cool about being wrapped up in jeans and boots safe in the knowledge that it won't be for very much longer. Having not lived in the English countryside for several years, the novelty of seeing cows at the end of the garden did not wear off, nor did Fizz Friday at the Five Horseshoes, where they found a friend for life in me given that the Prosecco was half price.

The last couple of days have been spent in one of my favourite places of all time, Eel Pie Island, where we have pottered around on the river, run the dogs and their new pal Stan off their feet and waved to every passing boat from the terrace. Pretty cool to have the Thames at the end of your garden and this view with your morning coffee.

To Gary and Phil, Mel and Bill, Karin and Paul, Jean, Fiona and Steve and Clare, thanks for being such excellent hosts. And to Sarah, whose house we are descending on in East Sussex today for the final few days before la rentree, remember, we don't travel light so it may take a while to unpack!

Cote Ouest

Forgive me blog readers, it's been a month since my last post, where has the time gone? I intended to write an update before we set off on our road trip two weeks ago, but the pressing nature of cleaning the house and making it boutique hotel quality ready for renting out while we travel around Europe took precedence. If cleanliness is next to godliness, I am destined for great things.

First stop is Biarritz on the beautiful Atlantic west coast. There are not enough good things to say about la Cote Ouest. While I love Arcachon and Cap Ferret for their understated beach style, Biarritz seems to slightly tip the balance because it is just so damn cool here. We have rented a stunning apartment in town a few hundred metres from the beach with amazing views of the lighthouse and horizon, as you can see above.

Not only have you got wide open, wild, beautiful beaches everywhere you look, there's not a €25 a day sunbed or glitzy restaurant relieving you of €150 for a fairly average light lunch for two in sight. Instead, it's just miles and miles of sand, which disappears completely at high tide, and a number of perfectly situated beach shacks and fish restaurants serving everything from proper frothy coffee and home made brownies to excellent mojitos, uber fresh catch of the day, little tapas plates of chipirons a la plancha, padrons (little green roasted peppers) and a divine sole cooked Spanish style covered in garlic, olive oil and lemon.

Much as the food is a big draw and Bar Jean, Bar du Marche, Blue Cargo, where you can watch the sunset with a mojito to the sound of Club Tropicana, and La Plancha - still our favourite because Eric, who owns it, and Sylvain the barman recognised us after a year's absence and always find us a table no matter how busy it is - can attest to our loyalty on that front, it's the surf that has made this our (okay, my) must-do destination for the second year running (and I suspect many more to come.)

Something weird comes over me as we edge closer to the West Coast. I'm guessing there are not that many mid 40 (ahem) something women who forsake their early morning fix of Grazia Daily and Vogue.co.uk for Magicseaweed.com to check the swell, what time low tide is and whether there's an on or offshore breeze. Equally, there aren't many places in the world where I feel comfortable leaving the house in a skintight wetsuit which makes me look like a cross between a fetishist and a walrus to drive to Cote des Basques and throw myself into the waves. I even downloaded a few Beach Boys tracks in the car, to the horror of Handyman and Issy, who were forced to listen to Surfing USA and Little Deuce Coupe over and over again for the last 100 km.

Summer surf is unpredictable. Some days, it's virtually flat and you have to chase every wave, other days it's gnarly and the current makes catching anything a huge struggle. Add into the mix the fact that even the best surfers consider a 30 second ride a monumental success and you can see that it wouldn't appeal to everyone, being slapped around the face by huge walls of water and dragged into rips if you venture slightly out of the marked zones. Sometimes you just end up floundering in the mousse.

Today, however, dear reader, was one of those days when it all went right. Handyman rang me while walking the dogs early this morning to tell me that the swell was the biggest he'd seen since we arrived and the 'proper surfers' were all out in force. 'Maybe you shouldn't go today, it looks a bit scary, the waves are as big as me,' he warned as I struggled into my damp wetsuit, checking in with Magicseaweed before racing down to the car.

It was mega. For every wipeout (and there were a few) I must have caught six really decent waves. Inexplicably for mid July there was hardly a soul in the water which meant a 100m beach break unencumbered by small children or complete beginners. After almost two weeks of daily surfing, I have just got over the irritating blisters on my hands, scraped toes and other board-inflicted injuries that are par for the course and just as we are about to leave on the next leg on the trip to Spain, my body feels like it's well up for whatever the Atlantic can throw at it (well as long as it's not over four feet high.) The only thing missing is my surf buddy Sarah, above, who spent two short days here with me screaming with joy as we tried to catch the same belles vagues.

Another friend Sazza messaged me yesterday to tell me that I looked the best I have ever looked. I feel it too and the waves are in no small way responsible for that. At the risk of blowing the secrecy that surrounds one of my favourite places on earth out of the water, if you are feeling like life could be a bit more exciting or fun, grab a board and come on in, the water is just lovely.

A Cautionary Tale

In about five minutes, it's my baby's birthday. Issy is 15 and the fun started a few hours earlier as you can see when I taught her how to play backgammon while we barbecued fish and duck and drank Charles Lafitte in a little family pre-birthday celebration.

It felt good to put a finger up at the lowlifes who ran through our house on Sunday afternoon, stealing whatever they could carry as we sat by the pool in blissful ignorance while Issy enjoyed a siesta in her room.

The dogs, who bark at EVERYTHING, did not make a sound for perhaps the first time in their lives. Oscar is excused as he was with us by the pool and heard nothing while Tallulah (okay, she is getting old and can't see so well) hid in a bush terrified as the scumbags legged it over the gate, snuck down the drive and into the house.

Once I called the gendarmes, naturellement the dogs went ballistic and more than made up for their poor show, barking and running furious circles around them.

More than anything, it's the inconvenience and time it takes to ring or email to cancel everything and reorder, renew and explain what has happened. Now we're all in paranoid stage as doors have to be locked during the day despite the fact that it's 30 degrees outside.

Usually I am a cup half full, if not completely full, but today I have to admit I had a wobble and a cry to my mum in London and felt unusually vulnerable and yes, I hate to admit it, quite down. And then I thought no, this is not going to get me. They are not going to win.

Funnily enough, of all the things that were stolen, what upset me most was the thought that the card I had ordered for Issy from Moonpig, painstakingly designed in photo upload by me (and we all know how technically minded I am) had been stolen. So when I found it on my desk cleverly filed under a sprawling pile of bills this afternoon, I was ecstatic. A small victory. Unfortunately for Handyman, his dog eared photo of the girls on the beach in Devon that has been in his wallet for the past 13 years did not make it. Ditto the beautiful Tiffany pen that they saved their pocket money up to buy for me last birthday to replace the one I had stolen in London as they knew how much it meant to me.

So what do you do in this situation? Luckily no one was hurt although the girls are sleeping in the same room right now and Handyman has a meat cleaver tucked under the bed. We are insured so it's not the end of the world. I'm all for a good cry, moving house and running down the culprits and making sure they never walk again (that might be the Lafitte talking).

Instead, after finishing the boring stuff and making an appointment in Marseille for Emergency Travel Documents in the absence of a passport (I've never been to Marseille so thanks guys), I went for a swim, bought some delicious food and we spent the evening on the terrace eating, drinking and laughing at the fact that our nutcase paranoid dogs, who attack every friend, poste person and UPS delivery driver, were too wussy to make a whimper when it came right down to it.

Laughter is the only way. Meanwhile, as summer arrives, make sure you lock your doors, be vigilant, don't be complacent and make sure you have a blunt heavy object at a handy distance.

Film Festival Fabulousness

It's been a whirlwind few weeks. Superyachts in Antibes and Genoa were swiftly followed by surfing, eating and cycling (eating definitely ruled) in Forte dei Marmi and book signings for Breathing Out in the UK, after which I barely had time to draw breath before it was Cannes Film Festival.

I can't do justice to Genoa and Forte dei Marmi here so I will return to my favourite subject of eating and drinking my way around Italy in a future post as I took it upon myself to seek out some phenomenal restaurants as the scales in my bathroom can now attest.

Signing books in the UK last week, I met an amazing and inspirational bunch of women all with their own stories to tell. Simone, my lovely nutritionist, came along and we met for the first time as thus far, all my consultations with her have been on Skype, 1,000 miles apart. That was emotional but nothing could prepare me for the signing after my talk, when many of the guests came up one at a time to share their experiences with me.

One, a bubbly, vibrant force of nature who is younger than me, told me she is fighting advanced bowel cancer. She is in the middle of chemotherapy but you would never know it to talk to her or look at her. There's not one ounce of negative energy about her.

Another guest revealed that she has lost one sister to breast cancer and her younger sister is currently fighting it too. She faces the prospect of being tested for the BRCA gene. Both said they couldn't wait to read my book and I felt humbled by the fact that they shared so much with me.

Tonight, I received an email from Jane, who told me how much she enjoyed the book. I've never met Jane and to get an email from a stranger saying thank you is a wonderful thing. Enjoyed may be the the wrong word to use, as she has just been diagnosed with breast cancer and is now in that awful limbo of waiting to find out exactly what happens next. I remember it well. She said she is feeling positive for the first time since diagnosis and is taking the book to show her Macmillan nurse.

Their reactions have reinforced my aim to get Breathing Out into every breast care centre in the UK, and then France, if I can get it translated, then goddammit, I'm going to go for world domination.

But before that I need to get through Cannes Film Festival. It kicked off last week with Grace of Monaco, which went down like a lead balloon with the critics for its mawkishly sentimental retelling of the marriage of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly. In fact, you can read all about it in my report in this week's edition of Hello magazine. The parties are in full swing with amfAR the hot ticket on Thursday (ahem yes, I will be going, somebody has to and it might as well be me.)

My big dilemma is what to wear alongside the A listers who have every major league designer and jeweller at their disposal. I feel Sarah Millican's pain as my wardrobe is more Havaianas and halter neck sundresses than LBDs and Louboutins. I have hit on a plan however and asked to borrow the dress I bought Liv for her birthday which she wore to the brilliant Belvedere Rita Ora gig last Friday. I figure she owes me BIGTIME for that invitation and a borrowed Tara Jarmon number will do nicely.

So far the award for most random question at a press conference goes to a German TV journalist who asked Tim Roth (Prince Rainier in Grace of Monaco): 'Was there a moment when you felt like hitting Nicole Kidman?' And most overblown ego award (lots of competition for this one) has to go to the unknown male guest at the Calvin Klein Collection/Independent Filmmaker Project party who told his date:‘That’s Julianne Moore. She’s lovely. I KNOW HER.’

Part two next week....