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.

Back to reality

Well readers, I know you have been used to jetting around lately in virtual reality with me to exotic destinations like Toronto, New York, Hawaii and Japan, so if like me you are feeling a bit travelled out, here is a picture to make you smile (especially those readers in the generally soggy, generally freezing UK)...the rain in Bar sur Loup, specifically, on my terrace.

It's day three of relentless, stair-rod style downpours and I am amazed to reveal that I haven't left the house now since Saturday afternoon. Even Oscar and Tallulah, who usually hurtle to the door every time I stand up, are refusing point blank to venture outside. The logs have been burning, the X Factor has been blaring and astonishingly, I didn't leave the sofa from 2pm yesterday, cosied up watching back to back Halloween films, which reminded me of how great it is to now have children who have no interest in making me dress as a old hag and go trick and treating, annoying the neighbours and frightening old people.

Having spent half term down at the apartment in Mandelieu, playing volleyball and beaching it in warm sunshine with our London mates who all took the first plane out of the UK for some respite from the frost that has already set in, we arrived chez nous at BSL in need of some R&R that didn't involve copious amounts of rose.

So my weekend was spent ruthlessly culling way too many clothes from over stuffed wardrobes, and discovering that I don't need to buy another pair of shoes, handbag, hat, pashmina or outfit for at least five years. In the spirit of being eco and tightfisted, this is a good move and made me feel quietly smug when I recalled all the beautiful but totally unnecessary purchases made by Norma and Sarah last Thursday as they worshipped at the alta of Rue d'Antibes, and Maje and American Vintage in particular.

I even resisted the temptations of High St Ken last week, God only knows how. (I have been waking up feeling a bit weird lately, perhaps Iain has performed a frontal lobotomy on me without me realising.) The lovely peeps at Disney booked me into the Royal Garden Hotel ready for my interviews with their teen stars Allstar Weekend and Selena Gomez. This meant two days of lounging around in five star luxury, with chaufeeur driven Mercedes ferrying me around, and post-Tokyo, the nigh on impossible challenge of STAYING AWAY FROM THE SHOPS which were stumbling distance away from my room.

I'm pleased to report, reader, that I almost managed this. (Does a summer jumpsuit from Urban Outfitters count? I'm saying not, particularly as I can't wear it for at least eight months.) The trip was also brightened by a number of other factors....

* Spotting Eric Clapton mooching around in the lobby as I checked in, chatting on his mobile and looking sartorially cool in a this-is-what-I-just-found-on-the-floor rock star kind of way.

* Running around the Serpentine on a bright sunny but FREEZING morning and remembering all the reasons why I still really love London (but just don't want to live there anymore.)

* Meeting PR extraordinaire mates Jo and Judy at E&O, our favourite haunt in the whole world and the scene of many memorable evenings, for a feast of food, fine wine and gossip, lots of it. Then spotting Rose Byrne, who is brilliant in Damages, sitting at the table next to us. When will these celebs stop stalking me?

*Meeting the aforementioned teen stars and finding out that it's still possible to be superfamous, or on the brink of superstardom, yet polite, funny and charming to said interviewer.

*Leaving a frost covered Heathrow on BA bound for sunny 18 degrees in the shade Nice, and enjoying lunch at Las Cabanas in Theoule with the handyman I married 14 years ago to the day.

What I'm saying is three days of rain cannot dim my world (unless it turns into five or six.)

Japan

Everyone needs to visit Tokyo once in their lives. After a 12 hour flight, landing at 9.30am is never a great plan when you are jumping forward eight hours but somehow the amazing sights, sounds and not least the FABULOUS food kept us out until 1am the following morning.

Norma, Lisa and Virginia hit the shops at the first opportunity as soon as we checked into the hotel and we trailed along in their wake, watching the fashionistas walk into a store and know within about two minutes whether there was anything worth following up for next year's collections.

After about five stores, Sarah and I needed a bit more than fashion to keep us going so we peeled off to head for Harajuku, Tokyo's version of Camden/Carnaby Street, with boys dressed in cargo shorts, leggings and boots (sounds so wrong yet it works but only if you're diehard trendy, under 25 and Japanese so don't try this at home.)
We finished off at a restaurant called Ninja where you go through a London Dungeon type underground cave system to sit in your own private locked booth, cross legged on the floor for the most fantastic sushi, sashimi and miso black cod...E&O eat your heart out.

One of the highlights of the trip was Kyoto. The bullet train from Tokyo to Kyoto takes 2 hrs 20 and was just phenomenal, it hurtles along at such speed you can almost feel the G force. Clean, spacious, with reclining seats and spectacular views. We decided the perfect way to see the city was by bike so we hired some by the station and headed off in the direction of the shrines and temples, east of the city hugging the mountains. The traditional Japanese architecture is evident, with elaborate overhung carved rooves on the tea houses and winding steep narrow streets. Best spot was two gay Brits who were made up as geishas for the day and rode around in a carriage, as well as a real geisha, still a fairly unusual sight during the day. It really was a feast for the senses.

We wound our way into the city after all the culture and parked our bikes at the front of a colourful shopping mall. I noticed what looked like parking tickets on all the other parked bikes and a friendly warden came over and started pointing at the tickets and shaking his head with a big smile. We came to the conclusion that he was telling us all the bikes had been issued parking tickets already so we were probably safe so we merrily took our chances and left them there. As we were wandering through the shops, it occurred to me that the last time I was on a day trip with the Smiths, Norma and I were towed away in Ventimiglia to the tune of €400! Tony and Sarah were chilled but I suddenly had a panic attack about the bikes being towed and we legged it back to find that every other bike had been clamped! Ours were the only three left untouched...oh happy days.

We ate the best sushi at the station, simple, fresh and cheap. I'd move to Japan for that alone. I noticed that much as Tokyo is probably one of the world's most crowded cities, everyone respects personal space. At the crossings, people stand well away from each other, no-one jostles or pushes forward and flu-style surgical masks are worn by commuters and cyclists on a daily basis. Even at 11pm the metro was full of commuters still making their way home from work....one memorable sight was a girl on the metro dressed entirely in pink; tutu, legwarmers, Mary Janes, and even pink ear muffs like a real life Barbie. Some of the fashion is bizarre but it is without doubt the most daring fashion forward place I've ever been to, which explains why the Swedish buying team from H&M were also staying at our hotel, on the lookout for fresh ideas.

So, if you are planning a trip to Japan anytime soon, top tips are:

* Shibuya district for an Oxford Street style bustle, amazing shops and mental fashion. Parco is definitely worth a look.

* Womb - concealed down a backstreet, you'd never find this place unless you know where to look but it's worth the hunt as it's one of the best clubs I've ever been to, with brilliant music, a mainly Japanese clientele and a very late licence.

* Adam and Eve onsen, in Ropponghi. A traditional bath house, with hot springs, plunge ppols and steam rooms, the masseuses are no-nonsense and clad in black bras and knickers, and cover you with oil and slap you around on the beds like you've never been slapped before, all the while chatting away to each other. They use crushed cucumbers for the facial and then shampoo and condition your hair before dousing you with moisturising milk. You leave feeling like you are floating on air. Women have to be naked, men need to wear shorts (Tony got a bit confused on this one, hence much hilarity from us. Luckily he was in the boys room next door.)

* The bullet train - just amazing.

* Ebisu and Meguro by the canal, great for vintage stores, cafes and bars.

* The Prada building in Aoyama, built like a beehive it is floor after floor of design heaven but be warned, twice the price of London.

Mad Men and Englishwomen

There are times when being a jet setter journalist is a lot of fun. Jaunts to LA, tick, Hawaii, tick, Maldives (landing in a sea plane, then relaxing between shoots in an overwater bungalow) tick. Then there are times when it is mind-blowingly, stressfully not fun, ergo last night stuck on the drive unable to open the electric gate due to stair-rod style horrible rain (a daily reality in the UK right now but still blissfully rare here.)

I get ready for a night that promises to be fun at Mipcom in Cannes, which involves registering for the festival, watching a screening of one of the latest Mad Men episodes so far unseen on UK television (need I say more) oh and a Q&A with the supremely talented, good-looking and yes genuinely nice Jon Hamm, aka Don Draper. Followed by cocktails at the Martinez. Ho hum, sooo worth venturing out in the gladrags on a rainy Monday night for.

Manage to make it up the rapids-style drive to the car, a not inconsiderable feat given the unsensibly high black boots I was wearing. Press the gate beep, nothing. Press again, still nothing. Call Issy on my mobile at the house to ask her to press the intercom gate buzzer, STILL NOTHING. Under normal circumstances I would have been a bit fed up, then thought about the advantages of not driving to Cannes on a wet and windy Monday night and been quite upbeat about my fate. But not when the hottest male TV and film star of the moment is waiting in Cannes.

Cue the hot handyman and jack of all trades (which implies master of none, and yet he can do it all, plumbing, electrical, even chimney sweeping!) Iain is none too impressed to be summoned from his warm dry PC to look at the gate in pouring rain but he graciously did it anyway before telling me there was NO WAY I was leaving the drive that night. Something in my crestfallen face and whingeing tone along the lines of ‘how I am I supposed to do my job and earn money if I can’t leave the house? I CANNOT miss the star of Mad Men’ must have had an effect because he then spent 45 minutes trying different ways to restart the electrical short before dismantling the gate mechanics so we could open it manually, me by now in my wellies trying to be the electrician’s mate and watching the hair I’d straightened earlier frizz into something approaching an exploding mattress.

No matter....reader, I got off the drive while Iain swam down it for a hot shower and then drove like a demon so as not to keep DD aka JH waiting. In the flesh, he is charming, funny, relaxed and even more handsome than he is on screen. If that's possible. If you are wondering what I’m on about, tune into Mad Men on BBC4 tomorrow night and all will be revealed.

Tomorrow, lunch with Robert Redford, Jon Hamm and a host of other celebs in Cannes. That is one big tick. To be continued.

Hawaii

Aloha! I'm boring the pants off myself saying that, but it's a great word, it means hello, goodbye, welcome, I love you and any manner of other nice greetings so really, it's the only Hawaiian word you need.

A trip has to be really good for me to say yes to spending a total of three days travelling across the world and back for four days actually on the ground but when the destination is Hawaii for Bravo's remake of Hawaii Five O, what else could you possibly say except aloha!

We flew United, and I really want to write nice things about them as their staff are quite sweet, polite, older than average steward crews, whch makes me like them more for being non-ageist, plus they bumped us up to a slightly higher class (the one that sits mid-way between economy or misery class and business, so basically, more legroom but no flat bed or flashy meals.)

One of the joys of flying is that you can't use your mobile (unless you're on Emirates, which will probably offer the first holidays to the moon as they are so avant garde and ahead of the competition) so it's licence to read uninterrupted and catch up on all the movies you've missed. Unless you're flying United. An antiquated miniscule screen with more plastic trim than screen, on the 11 hr LA leg, it offers a choice of 8 old-ish films on rotation so if you fall asleep or need the loo, you might miss a crucial scene.

Then horrors, after three hours at LAX in transit, on the next leg of 5hrs 50 mins, there was one drop down screen showing Mr and Mrs Jones, a complete piece of drivel which makes me worry that David Duchovny is one of my favourite actors. My advice - buy every mag and at least three new books in Smiths and you will be fine. No offence United, but you have the monopoly on London - Hawaii and a 19 hour journey would be so much more bearable with a decent Virgin-style on demand entertainment system.

Hawaii itself is just fantastic, words can't do it justice. Oahu is the most commercial island, with Honolulu and Waikiki, so I was expecting touristy and built up, but outside of those areas, it was amazingly unspolit. I can see why Jurassic Park was filmed there; the volcanic mountains are a sight to behold, and Johnny Depp and Penelope Cruz left just before we arrived, having wrapped the fourth Pirates of the Caribbean at gorgeous Cockroach Cove.

Diamond Head and North Shore are the places for serious surfers (maybe in another 10 years I will be headed there) but Waikiki is great for beginner/me-style surfing so whenever I had a free couple of hours (no readers, it was not every day, contrary to Iain's belief that every work trip is merely a journo's holiday) I would hire a board for a couple of hours and head off there while my fellow journos hit the shopping. It's really saying something to admit that in four days, I didn't buy one solitary item of clothing, shoes, hat, bikini, CD, DVD, scarf, coat etc etc. The warm Pacific means no wet suits (yay) but also means I'm now sporting an attractive collection of friction burns on my knees, toes, under arms and cleavage! It was so cool though that I can't care too much. Standing up on that board in Waikiki was worth a thousand BCBG Maxazria T shirts.

Went to the beach premiere (see pic) to watch the pilot and then onto Nobu for a sushi and champagne fuelled party with the cast and crew. Nuff said. OK, it was AMAZING. And Kahala Resort where we were staying (thanks to our clued up pr Jakki) was the height of luxury. Saw Liam Neeson getting in the lift (and was tempted to give chase) and it's Cameron Diaz's fave hotel when she is on the island (only slightly sad that I missed her and her pneumatic beach bod.)

So now I'm back. Iain and the girls have become so adept at coping without me this summer that after the initial hugs and kisses followed by 'what have you bought me?' I slip into the background again, only to be told a day later to 'calm down, the house ran perfectly well without you and your telling offs and constant 'tidy your room' orders!' And that's just from Iain....At least Oscar is still not over the excitement of having me back, bless his chubby triple chin.

New York

Okay so this is the moment when I made a lasting impression on the lovely Jonas Brothers. Otherwise known as ‘How to break the ice in one fell swoop’, especially when your celebrity subjects are a tad suspicious of an ex-tabloid hack from the UK – we are on a par with e coli as far as our lovely American clebs are concerned.

Five minutes into the interview and we were talking about a picture of the boys making an appearance on the Ellen chat show in the States...
Joe - That was our third or fourth time on Ellen. We were in Florida we did a performance for her and we were able to ride on tons of roller coasters which was a lot of fun. It was hot though, really hot, and we had very, very long hair.
Kevin – My hair looks like it’s consuming my face.
Joe – You look like a mad scientist! Ellen is such a sweetheart and we loved being on her show.
Me – That’s not Owen Wilson there is it?
Kevin – That’s Ellen deGeneres!
Me – Oh my God, don’t tell her I said that will you? It’s just the blurriness of the photo! I’m about to get sent home on the next plane!
Kevin – That’s ok! That’s ok!
Joe – I don’t think she’s reading it, thankfully you own what you write!
Kevin – That is hilarious!
Me – Moving swiftly on, that is our little secret....

I swear to God in her brogues, slacks and with her short but floppy blonde hair she was a dead ringer fro owen. Can I just say the boys were lovely, they laughed so hard (at me) then signed a CD for the girls, and even allowed me to bust in on their red carpet moment and told me I was their favourite journalist of all time! Not that I’m swayed at all by flattery….

Anyway, here are the little finds I discovered this time around in lovely, 90 degree NYC….

Sushi Damo, West 58th St – fantastic sushi, amazing salads with a secret Japanese dressing that the chef didn’t want to share with me, and amazing spicy rolls. So good we spent three lunches there!

Bes , 11th Ave and West 22nd St in Chelsea – cool little bar serving food til late, a great stop for any Londoners missing the pub and consequently full of ex-pat Brits.

The Mandarin Oriental, Columbus Circle near Central Park - Amazing city views and a gentleman’s club feel, they also serve food til 11, or midnight if you are very hungry and persuasive after a red carpet premiere, like us.

Mercer Kitchen at the Mercer Hotel in SoHo– the warm shrimp salad was fab and the scallops with spinach stuffed ravioli and crushed peas was a party in my mouth.

I am writing this two weeks after my return, so manic has life been since, but I do remember trying to pack my room against the clock and constantly ringing the front desk for a slightly later check out (three times, they were quite long suffering about this.)

Stayed at the Hudson Hotel, which has great communal areas and a breakfast bar with thrones at the tables but doesn’t seem to wanna spend much on lighting, hence the bruises all over my legs from walking into furniture and also getting off at the wrong floor on a regular basis as a result of being distracted by the piped but very good and loud dance music in the lifts.

They also don’t like you moving chairs at the outside bar/terrace, you have to be a table of four or spend the entire evening sitting apart, or risk the wrath of the humourless bar staff. To summarise, it’s a cool location and has a very hip image but DON’T STAY HERE.