As Europe’s largest arts festival draws to a close, Caroline Phillips braves the mud and rain to rub shoulders with the clever, the famous and the passionate

‘Bill Clinton said Hay is like Woodstock of the mind’

The venue for drinks with the “man who used to be the next president” is Top Secret – for security reasons. Guests are to be taken (blindfolded?) by bus to an unknown destination. Given directions just minutes before it starts, I go by car. It’s easy to find. Outside the “secret” location flies a state-sized American flag and security men stand ready to prevent, er, blood and gore.

Al Gore, the former US vice-president and self-dubbed “recovering politician”, is on the lawn outside the Penrhos Court Hotel, an organic establishment where they serve nettle soup. He’s hotfooted it here from Cannes where his documentary about climate change, An Inconvenient Truth, was showing. Now he’s come to persuade audiences at the Hay Festival – Europe’s largest arts festival – of the dire consequences of global warming.

He could also be a presidential contender for 2008, despite assurances that he’s a “recovering politician”. “Are you planning a relapse?” I inquire. He grips his champagne glass tightly and then breaks into a smile. “Very unlikely,” he replies.

Gore is a large man – six foot three-ish with a girth to match – and sports a black suit and cowboy boots. “Cowboy boots!” I point rudely but as he and I are both Hay virgins, I feel we’re kindred spirits.

“I came prepared,” he responds. “Bill [Clinton] said the Hay Festival is like the Woodstock of the mind. There was a lot of mud at Woodstock.”

The festival, brainchild of the energetic and clever Peter Florence, artistic director, started in 1987 with 15 speakers meeting for a weekend in the tiny Brecon Beacons village. Now it attracts megawatt guests – aside from Clinton, Paul McCartney, Susan Sontag, John Updike and Donna Tartt have all been lured here. (When the late Arthur Miller was invited to talk, the response came: “Is Hay-on-Wye a sandwich?”) It is now a scorchingly hot social event – a sort of Serpentine Gallery summer party in Wales.

My first discovery about Hay is that it takes 700 hours to get there in half-term holiday traffic. Some put the time to good use: Bloomsbury editor Bill Swainson bought the UK rights to Gore’s latest book by Blackberry while sitting in a layby.

I was unprepared for the sheer scale of Hay, a Glastonbury for colour supplement readers. Two years ago, the festival moved from the village to a vast tented metropolis in a field. This year, there were more than 80,000 visitors and nearly 400 events with guests including Seamus Heaney, Simon Callow, Zadie Smith and Sebastian Faulks. Virtually everything sold out.

One rule of Hay is that it always rains. There’s a tractor to help vehicles out of the paddy fields. On site, even the Guardian came with a pac-a-mac, which pre-empted jokes about wet liberals. If there are any inaccuracies in this article, it’s because most of my scribblings were washed away. “Being in the mud and rain brings out the best in Brits,” Margaret Atwood told me. At least, I think that’s what my notes say.

Mostly, the weather dictates the dress code. Anoraks and boots. Boots and anoraks. Literary agent Caroline Michel went a little further in waisted lime-green coat dress and, minutes later, a pale silver outfit with heels as high as the Brecon Hills.

Meanwhile, Tanny Gordon, wife of John (he’s the grand fromage of achingly fashionable Intelligence Squared, which runs university-style debates for London’s chattering classes) stepped into the mud in satin Marni pumps. The couple were accosted every step of their regal way with offers to speak in John’s debates.

Hay is a melting pot for political, socio, economic, arty and literary ideas, and its audiences are super-informed. Scary. David Hare gave a stimulating talk on theatre and politics while a few muddy steps away abstract painter Howard Hodgkin “talked” to Simon Schama. Hodgkin answered in monosyllables. Antony Gormley stayed for two minutes then joined the throngs walking out.

In another tent, professional contrarian Christopher Hitchens was in mid-brilliant discourse on Thomas Paine and the rights of man when someone’s mobile rang. “Who the f— is that?” he asked the thousand-plus audience. “We know where you live. We know where your children go to school.” Then he lit another cigarette, drank yet more whisky and donned sunglasses. The line worked less well in his afternoon gig. Ring, ring. “We know where you go to school,” said Hitch, staring unsteadily at the offender.

This ideas fest was punctuated with a visit to Giffords Circus, a psychedelic, bohemian annual spectacular. Even the audience was surreal. Paul Rusesabagina, the hotel manager whose experience of genocide was powerfully told in Hotel Rwanda, sat beside Joanna Trollope and Sheila Hancock. Germaine Greer arrived late, with steam coming out of her ears.

Channel 4 held its elegant party in the grounds of Hay Castle. Security was tight because Gore was on the guest list. But the circus troupe crashed it disguised as “distinguished authors” – all elected to come either as Rosie Boycott or Atwood. Inside, there was a buzz about Nick Broomfield’s Ghosts, a film inspired by the Morecambe Bay cockle-pickers’ drownings.

I’m very glad I lost my virginity. Just like Gore, I can envisage a comeback.

When Christian Constantine was born, the doctors at London’s Portland hospital had never seen such severe cranio-facial deformities. They didn’t, and still don’t, have a name for his condition, but he is believed to be one of four people in the world with a combination of so many rare and serious defects. At 23, he has endured more than 35 operations, including highly risky major reconstructive ones. He has also faced the possibility of blindness, had his kidneys operated on, gone deaf in one ear and suffered life-threatening illnesses such as meningitis and hydrocephalus (fluid on the brain that causes compression).

Yet Christian’s is a story of hope, determination and extreme bravery, which he has chronicled in a memoir for which literary agents Curtis Brown are seeking a publisher. We meet in the central London apartment belonging to Christian’s mother, Mina, and father, Adam, a company director; who are both Greek but were raised in London. With his scarred forehead, slightly drooping right eyelid and somewhat distended cheek, Christian is now taken by most people for an accident victim rather than someone born with a rare combination of disabilities. He talks from the back of his throat, with a nasal tone: speech that, owing to therapy, is vastly improved since he was at nursery, when only his family understood him. (“At the time, I thought that was normal,” he says later.)

Mina, 52, offers me biscuits, chocolate, fruit and tea. “I didn’t know anything was wrong until Christian was born and I saw my doctor’s eyes,” she says. “Then they put me to sleep again immediately. I didn’t see him for three days. Not until the nurses said, ‘First we’re going to show a Polaroid picture of baby to mummy.’ That’s when I insisted on actually seeing him. He was very wrong-looking indeed. But I felt love at first sight.”

The doctors were mystified. The bones of Christian’s face had stopped forming prematurely, he had hypertiliorism, which meant that his eyes were too far apart and his eyebrows abnormally high, and a severe cleft lip and palate, leaving the roof of his mouth open and the top gum exposed. (“That thing protruding from my lip is the roof of my mouth, I think,” says Christian later, showing me photographs, including one of his mother holding him adoringly, and another of him aged three and wearing a bow tie with his father.) “They didn’t even know whether he was going to live,” says Mina, who had him baptised in intensive care when he was three days old.

At the time, the doctors were particularly concerned that the frontal lobe of his brain had been damaged by the cleft, which went up to his forehead. “They mentioned putting him in a home and also said, ‘If he gets ill, we won’t try hard to save him, all right?'” says Mina. “I said, ‘I agree.’ That’s the only time I ever felt that, when I thought he might be brain-damaged and not have a quality of life. Happily, he was fine. He had his first operation at six weeks, to repair his cleft lip. But nobody had any idea that we’d still be operating nearly 24 years later.”

In the intervening years – from Chicago to Houston, London, Paris and Los Angeles – Christian has undergone a series of radical procedures (including moving his eyes and building a nose) as well as operations to create eyelids, to put bone grafts in his mouth to support teeth implants and to prevent urinary reflux (when urine flows back to the kidneys). In 1985, he had surgery at Great Ormond Street to correct his compressed head bones – his brain was growing faster than his skull would allow. Surgeons opened his head from ear-to-ear to release the bones. Shortly afterwards Christian got meningitis and hydrocephalus.

In 1993, Paul Tessier, the “grandfather” of cranio-facial surgery, performed a massive procedure on him in Paris to bring his eyes closer together and lower his eyebrows. Before the operation, Adam overheard Tessier saying to his anaesthetist in French, “We’re entering a patch of fog without a compass.”

“They had to remove the entire bone from my face and reshape it and my brain was ‘shrunk’ to allow more room for the surgeons to work,” says Christian, straightforwardly. “Blindness was a risk, as was exposing my brain after meningitis.” Afterwards, he threw up a lot of blood. “Obviously, I couldn’t see anything because my eyes were stitched together.”

Was this his lowest point? “I’ve often woken up and thought, ‘This is physically unbearable,'” he says. “When I was 19, they had to correct a forehead defect by applying pressure to it. The only way to do this was to staple a bandage onto my head. To remove it, they had to yank it out. Excruciating.” Once he had tissue expanders (which are similar to balloons) placed inside his head and then inflated with water to stretch the tight, scarred skin. “They put water through a needle into a tube inside my head and then the expander got bigger and bigger under the skin. It was agony.” Another time, when the upper lip was being improved, his lips were sewn together for two weeks.

Despite all this, he recalls junior school as a “happy” time. “He was so cute and outgoing when he was little,” remembers Christian’s 21-year-old sister, Isabella. Aged 12, Christian played the lead part in the school play, and loved it. “I was dressed as a woman in a bright red wig and skirt,” he says. And what of unwanted attention? When he was nine, he tells me, the children at a party ran up laughing, “Look at his face, he’s an alien.” Another time a boy taunted, “That must be a mask you’re wearing.” “Once,” says Christian, “somebody was staring so much that he tripped and fell over in the street.”

“His being stared at was the worst thing for me, more upsetting even than sitting in hospital waiting rooms,” says Mina. “It doesn’t matter how educated people are, they can be awful.” In the street, his parents and sister would stand in front of Christian to block him from view. “I’d talk loudly to him,” says Mina, “so people would know that just because he didn’t look right didn’t mean that he couldn’t understand what they were saying about him.” At first, Christian wasn’t aware of the attention. “When I was young, it didn’t affect me that much because being stared at was all I knew,” he says. “But once I got into my teens and went to secondary school, it was terrible.”

Schoolwork was hard because he was off sick so much, sometimes for more than a term at a time. (He scraped through his GCSEs, but failed his A-levels.) And once his adolescent peers started partying and chasing girls, Christian withdrew into himself. His problems were exacerbated by his stunted growth. Aged 13, he wasn’t even 5ft (he’s now 5ft 7in). “By 15,” he says quietly, “I’d lost my confidence. I hated my looks, felt deserted by my friends and avoided social activities.”

He developed feelings for a fellow student. Did he tell her? “Of course not,” he smiles.

“I used to tell myself, ‘Who’d go out with someone as bad-looking as me?’ Then one day some boys started jeering, ‘Who do you think you are? The way you look, you don’t have a hope of

getting a girlfriend, ever.'” He looks down momentarily. “If I saw them today, I’d break their legs.” Did his parents consider therapy for him? “I didn’t tell them what was going on.” Mina nods. “I only heard about a lot of this recently. But anyway there weren’t

support groups that I knew of,” she says, “and he didn’t ever want to be grouped with people just because of having deformities.”

When he was 16, his closest friend since childhood, George, died. “That hit him really badly,” says Mina. “Not least because it shook his faith in medicine. Until then he’d always thought doctors could fix anything.” He started skipping school to drink beer at 11am. “At night, I’d wait until my parents were asleep, then drink a bottle of wine,” Christian says. Depression took hold and he’d sit listlessly in the waiting room on the floor where George’s bedroom had been in the Royal Free Hospital. “I’d go there after midnight and sit there for hours just looking straight ahead.”

“I knew he was devastated about George, all his friends were, but I didn’t realise anything else was going on,” says Mina sadly. “He hid it so well from us.” At his GP’s suggestion, Christian had counselling in 2001. “It wasn’t much help but I never wanted psychiatric care,” he says. “I’m not very open. I don’t talk about my problems.”

His difficulties came to a head when he was studying shipping at Southampton University in 2004. “I’d thought everything would be different there,” says Christian, who took a year out in 2005 to have an operation to lower his eyebrows and hairline. “But after a few weeks, I’d hardly talked to anyone. I’d just go to lectures, then back to my room. I was drinking to escape my problems. I didn’t even dare go to the common room. But I told mum and everyone that I was loving it.”

One evening in October 2004, he walked back from a bar resolved to take his life. Back in his room, he grabbed 20 Panadol Extra. “I didn’t even know if it would be enough to kill me,” he says. “But it wasn’t really a suicide attempt. I didn’t even try.” It was seeing a photograph of his family that stopped him. “That brought me to my senses. Whatever I’d been through, they’d suffered too.” He was hysterical when he rang his Uncle Basil, who calmed him down. “It’s the first I’ve heard of a suicide,” says Mina, with surprising calm. “I think he’s shielded me from lots of things.”

Unsurprisingly, the impact of his disabilities on the family has been great. “I adore him now,” says Isabella. “But for obvious reasons he got most of the attention when we were children. I was very jealous.” Often when the family went to operations, Isabella had to stay with relations.

Adam and Mina’s stable 26-year marriage has inevitably suffered. After giving birth to Isabella in 1987, Mina terminated two further pregnancies for foetal abnormalities similar to Christian’s. In 1988, after her first termination, at 22 weeks, Adam walked out. “Only for a few weeks,” says Mina. “We both wanted another child and were coping with Christian, but another abnormal baby was too much to bear.” She pauses. “I also had a sort of breakdown after my second termination. Things got progressively worse and culminated, finally, in a nasty bout of pneumonia, for which I was hospitalised. I’m sure it was psychosomatic. I always felt that I didn’t have anywhere to go and cry.”

The high financial cost of Christian’s treatment is also clear. Their health insurers, PPP, underwrote most of the early procedures that were carried out in the UK, but the Constantines have had to pay for other operations, plus their worldwide travel and hotel expenses. “We had to. They just wouldn’t have been able to do things like the nasal reconstruction and lowering his eyebrows here,” explains Mina. “They made sacrifices,” adds Christian simply. “But they were always clear that they’d do whatever was best for me, whatever it took. And, frankly, plastic surgeons are light years ahead in the US.”

Christian’s immediate family has been ceaselessly supportive and protective of him. “I think I helped him psychologically with my positivity,” says Mina, who has dedicated her life to making things better for him. “I also taught him to be a bit arrogant, as a defence and protection.” Isabella says she still “babies” her brother and always keeps her eyes and ears open for him, “although he’s more than capable of doing anything himself”. Meanwhile Adam has worked tirelessly, researching the best doctors, paying for and attending operations. (“Adam is intensely private,” adds Mina, “but he’s had his dark moments. Once they stuck a massive skin graft on Christian’s face and it looked like a croissant under his nose. I think that’s when Adam wanted to pitch himself out of the 46th floor of our hotel.”)

Christian also has a close extended family (he has 20 first cousins). “He was treated as normal by them,” says Mina. Many would fly to lend support at operations. (The Constantines travelled 14 times to Chicago in two years, and spent two months in LA at a stretch, for operations.) “Adam’s siblings, their partners, my in-laws, my mum and granny, about 20 of us, went to Paris for Christian’s operation in 1993,” says Mina. “I’ve only ever attended minor operations alone.”

The doctors still have no idea why Christian’s problems occurred. Last year the Constantines saw geneticist Prof Raoul Hennekam at Great Ormond Street. “He’s still researching,” explains Christian. “He says there are only four similar cases in the world.” If the defects appeared in Christian’s children, what would he do? “I’d want to terminate,” he says. “I don’t want to sound arrogant, but I can’t imagine anyone else surviving what I’ve been through. I couldn’t let my child go through what I’ve suffered.”

There’s a sense, however, that Christian is coming to accept his lot. Step by step, he’s confronting his problems. He feels he has his drinking more under control. “Sometimes I don’t drink for a week,” he says. “If I drink, I can’t stop. So I have to be careful. I’ve thought of trying AA. I think I’m doing it now because I’m addicted to alcohol rather than to escape problems.”

“He seems to have come to terms with things more,” confirms Mina. His appearance and self-esteem have improved radically. Now, in the rare event that someone stares, he stares right back. He has also made good friends at university. “Not just relations and Greeks!” he laughs. He’s finishing university this year. “For a change, it looks as if I’ll pass my exams.” After graduation, he’s thinking of living in New York. And he hopes one day to marry and have children.

Importantly, his major surgery is now over. “I may do a few more cosmetic things and have an operation to improve my speech.” He pauses. “Some people think I’m obsessed with looking perfect. But if anyone told me I couldn’t ever have another operation, I wouldn’t be terribly upset.” Really? “Honestly. It’s taken me a long time. But now I really do feel that it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” Which is someone funny, energetic and resourceful. And, of course, incredibly brave.*

*Some names have been changed.

I’m sitting at a kitchen table in West London’s Notting Hill talking to the two parenting gurus of the moment. Their children – a total of eight between them – are at school, but there are bikes and scooters in the hallway, two fish tanks on a worktop, and the fridge is covered in magnetic letters, like a hundred thousand other family kitchens around the UK. It’s the home of Karen Doherty, and this table is where she and Georgia Coleridge have spent the past five years writing their book Seven Secrets of Successful Parenting.

Karen, 44, and Georgia, 42, became friends through their offspring. ‘We met in the communal garden that our houses both backed on to,’ explains Karen, who has Californian surfer-girl good looks, matching accent and Juicy Couture tracksuit. ‘Our children would run in and out of each other’s houses,’ adds Georgia, more bohemian in her spotty dress and with the face (in the words of her husband) of a prettier Cherie Blair.

Karen is the partner of Peter Doherty, a financier, and mother of three girls and a boy, aged eight, nine, 11 and 13. Georgia is married to Nicholas Coleridge, writer and managing director of Condé Nast, publisher of glossy magazines such as Vogue and Glamour. They have three boys and a girl, aged nine, 12, 15 and 16.

Despite being the kind of groomed, confident women who make mothering look easy, both admit to having felt paralysed with fear when they first became parents, and being tested to the limit by their own children’s antics. ‘My youngest son was the naughtiest in his nursery class,’ says Georgia. ‘He got up to endless mischief with Karen’s son, who was his best friend. And two of I’m our daughters were also partners in crime – at the age of five they escaped on to the street through the garden fence.’ Karen, who is forthright and witty, has an MPhil in management from Oxford and was a producer and journalist for American television before she became a full-time mother. Georgia, an Oxford graduate in politics, philosophy and economics, is children’s book editor of the Daily Mail, a reviewer and a spiritual healer. Tiptop academic, journalistic and caring credentials on both sides – but the idea for their book stemmed from their complete lack of confidence at the thought of bringing up children.

‘When I had my first baby,’ says Karen, ‘I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to cope. I’d never changed a nappy, and I was worried that I’d make mistakes and ruin my relationship with her. But then I saw how well a friend of mine dealt with her son when he was rude to his great-grandmother. If I’d behaved that badly as a kid, I’d have been slapped across the face and reminded for months of my insolence,’ she says. ‘So my friend’s sympathetic approach was a revelation. I realised how much I needed to learn, so I started reading lots of parenting books and signed up for classes.’ Georgia remembers feeling a similar sense of panic and bewilderment. ‘I had intended to be Julie Andrews up a mountain with a guitar and permanently happy children,’ she recalls. ‘So it was a terrible shock when mine argued with me, fought with each other and didn’t do what they were told. Whenever there was any sign of trouble, either I panicked and froze or lost my temper.’ They both attribute their lack of instinctive parenting skills to difficult aspects of their own childhoods.

Karen was raised in California by her father James Weinberg, then a Hollywood lawyer, and mother Patricia, then a nurse turned housewife. Her parents divorced 25 years ago. ‘My mother hated having her authority challenged,’ she explains. ‘Her dogmatic approach worked with my younger brother and sister, but I stood up to her, and she didn’t like it. To her [she’d been brought up by a Christian fundamentalist father] I was the devil child, the root of all evil in the house. She screamed and shouted and meted out physical punishments that would be considered child abuse these days – like hitting me so hard with a wooden spoon that it broke. She just didn’t know how to deal with me.’ Georgia, the elder of two daughters born to George Metcalfe, then a businessman, now a life coach, and his wife Elizabeth, who did charity work, was raised in Fulham, West London, amid gerbils, dachshunds and her mother’s home-made tapestry cushions. ‘My mother would be nice…then even nicer…then when being nice didn’t get through, she’d lose her temper volcanically,’ Georgia recalls.

‘My parents divorced when I was eight and I became like…’ She pauses. ‘Do you remember the boy in The Snow Queen? When the queen’s mirror .. ‘When I had my first baby, I was terrified that I’d make mistakes and wouldn’t be able to cope’ breaks, a shard goes into the little boy’s heart and he can no longer feel proper emotion. I’d been a sunny child until then but I coped badly with the underlying tensions and sadness, and my mother pretending it was all OK. I was fine at school [she won a scholarship to St Paul’s, the top London girls’ school] but at home I froze up and wouldn’t connect with my mother at all. ‘She had had a very difficult childhood too,’ Georgia adds. ‘Her own mother ran off when she was two, and her parents fought a vicious custody battle over her for 16 years. So she’d had poor parenting herself, yet she did her best as a single mother to look after us and hold everything together. But she was suffering, I was suffering and it was all just too painful. When things were at their worst, there was no money because my father’s business had folded and my mother was struggling to keep us all afloat. She couldn’t physically even kiss us goodnight – she just couldn’t touch us because life was too much for her.’ Interestingly, both Georgia and Karen had better relationships with their fathers than their mothers. ‘I told my father everything,’ says Karen.

‘He was the one who helped me sort out boyfriend troubles and took me to buy my first bra. To him I was an angel and he always saw the best in me. He never shouted at me or hit me, and I responded much better to his style of parenting – very gentle, very thoughtful. When I did misbehave, he’d sort it out sympathetically.’ And Georgia? ‘My father was just so cuddly and affectionate, I’ve always got on with him,’ she says. ‘I am so grateful that my mother didn’t repeat the pattern from her own childhood, and fight him for custody. It was a lifeline seeing him at weekends.’ So for both Karen and Georgia, most of their ‘mothering’ came from their fathers. ‘But let’s put this in perspective,’ says Karen. ‘Neither of us had idyllic childhoods, but nor were they terrible. There are plenty of people far worse off.’ And despite their troubled experiences, both of them have gone on to have large families of their own. ‘My relationship with my mother didn’t put me off having children,’ says Karen.

‘And luckily my temperament is very like my father’s. When each baby was born I loved them so passionately I just kept on getting broody. But I knew I’d reached my limit after having four children in five years.’ For Georgia, raised as one of five children from the age of 12 (both her parents remarried so she acquired two half-sisters and a half-brother), large families ? seem normal. ‘I love the different characters and relationships you get in big families,’ she says. Yet both women felt they couldn’t cope with the reality of a sprawling family without additional help. ‘I hired a nanny for a time, because I couldn’t manage a baby, two toddlers and a five-year-old on my own,’ explains Karen, who has no extended family nearby, having moved to the UK 20 years ago when she met her husband and won a place at Oxford. Georgia adds, ‘I had a wonderful lady to help me out. And I was lucky because when Alexander [her oldest child] was born, I went back to the office part time.

Then, as I had more babies, I found I could do large chunks of my job in the middle of the night when the children were asleep. But,’ she adds, ‘I kept thinking, if it’s tough for me, how incredibly hard it must be for other people. Like most parents, I’ve been tired for years and years. That’s why I wanted to find solutions that work for everyone.’ Georgia’s four children are all now at boarding school. Isn’t this surprising in a parenting guru? ‘Yes, I’m frightened people will say, “How can she write about parenting when her own children board?” But the two youngest have only just started, so for 16 years I’ve had children at home full time,’ explains Georgia. ‘I mourned each of my children for a year before they went to school. My husband says boarding days were the happiest of his life, so they wanted to go too. It was a hard decision, but a good one. They love boarding and my relationships with them are still very strong. The only thing we’ve lost,’ she continues, ‘is the fight over homework. I spend tons of time with them in the holidays, see them most weekends, and speak to them up to three times a day. I’m still very physical with them. Even Alexander, my 16-year-old, will sit on my knee and hug me, although he’s taller than me now.’ What, though, makes the duo think they can tell the rest of us how to parent? ‘We can’t,’ responds Georgia. ‘And we don’t want to. I’ve thrown lots of bossy, patronising books, the sort that tell you there’s only one way to do it, in the dustbin.’

Instead, they collected anecdotes and solutions from all sorts of parents – at the school gates, in grocery queues, at parenting classes, even in sandpits. ‘Most of our stories came from mothers,’ says Karen, ‘but as we both had such great fathers we tried to get lots of input from men too.’ Both of them think their own husbands do a fantastic job. ‘Nicholas is a great father,’ enthuses Georgia. ‘He’s very affectionate, cooks them breakfast and stands on the side of a hockey pitch in horizontal rain. He took Alexander and Freddie to Egypt, on his own, when they were five and six. I’m not sure what was more exciting for them – seeing the pyramids, or being allowed Coca-Cola!’ ‘I couldn’t have had so many children if Pete wasn’t such a good father,’ agrees Karen. ‘When they were babies he did endless night shifts, and as they got older he’d take them swimming and cycling. Now he’s always around in the evenings to help with homework, and at the weekends he’s on pancake duty.’ Karen and Georgia’s book distils their findings into seven parenting types and a collection of simple, accessible, easily remembered emotional tools for dealing with everything from getting your child to clean his teeth or turn off the television to picky eaters and bullying.

The idea is that you don’t have to be one sort of parent all the time – you can adapt different approaches to deal with different situations. It’s about finding a style that feels comfortable for you, and works with your children. If your child is persistently naughty, picky about his food or being bullied, for example, you will need to try more than one approach. ‘The more options you’ve got, the easier it is,’ says Karen, ‘but we’re not here to tell you which type of parent to be.’ And which type are they? ‘I’m good on the friendly stuff,’ says Georgia. ‘Like my father I’m a naturally Tuned-In and Cheerleader Parent [see box, above]. But I’ve had to learn ? how to be more authoritative, more of a Commando type, and it has helped a lot.’ ‘I’m naturally a Pause Parent,’ says Karen. ‘When my children started fighting, my mind went blank and often I didn’t know the best thing to do or say. But I found that saying nothing is a lot better than shouting, and once everyone has calmed down, it’s easier to sort things out. I also take after my father as a Tuned-In and Cheerleader Parent.

But I could become more Sorted. It’s a miracle when my children all end up at school with the correct kit on the right day.’ Writing the book has also helped them to resolve childhood issues and their relationships with their own mothers. Georgia had lunch earlier this month with both her parents, in a restaurant in Westminster. ‘By some fluke, Mrs Thatcher was upstairs,’ says Georgia, ‘so everyone was up there gawping and we had the ground floor to ourselves. We spoke about things that we’d avoided for 35 years and had to keep wiping away the tears. My relationship with my mother had been like a raw egg – neither of us had dared tap too hard on the shell in case we found all sorts of raw, runny, scary emotion inside. Now for the first time we were able to tap the egg and talk directly.’ Karen and her mother have also had a reconciliation. ‘I refused to talk to her for years in my teens,’ she says. ‘There was such a wall between us. But we’ve been able to get beyond that now.

She says she regrets all the years we lost. Touchingly, she also says I’m the best parent she’s ever seen and she’s now using our techniques with her grandchildren.’ Their relationship improved when Karen’s children were born. ‘My mother came and helped me, as her mother had helped her. It was the first thing she’d done for me in decades, and I saw a calm, more compassionate side of her.’ There will be no stopping the born-again parents now. They’ve been doing public speaking engagements, have just launched a parenting website, (KarenAndGeorgia.com) intend to run parenting classes and are bringing out a book on siblings next year. ‘The connection with our mothers wasn’t what we’d have wanted and we’ve both tried hard to give our children what we missed,’ concludes Karen. ‘It’s taken a hell of a long time to figure it out and make it simple so it works. Now we just want to help others too.’ And they will. Seven Secrets of Successful Parenting by Karen Doherty and Georgia Coleridge will be published tomorrow by Bantam, price £12.99. To order a copy with free p&p, call the YOU Bookshop on 0845 606 4204 or go to you-bookshop.co.uk

Seven ways to successful parenting

Karen and Georgia have identified seven parenting types, each with their own unique approach to family life. If you have children, you will almost certainly identify with one or more of them, but what can you learn from the other parenting styles?

PAUSE PARENTS give themselves time to think. They stay calm and quiet and don’t overreact in a crisis. If their child is arguing, whingeing or shouting, they realise it doesn’t help to get wound up and sucked into the drama. They know that once everyone has simmered down, everything will become clear. Then they can pick up the pieces, solve the problem, and maybe even stop the same scene playing itself out again in the future.

CHEERLEADER PARENTS focus on their child’s good points and are great at motivating with praise. It’s not that they don’t care if their child misbehaves; they stay positive because they know it gets results and that bad behaviour tends to shrivel up from lack of attention. Often saying something kind is all it takes.

TUNED-IN PARENTS understand the feelings behind their child’s behaviour and try to work out why he is behaving as he is. When their child is behaving badly or being defiant, they assume there’s a good reason for it, even if they don’t know exactly what it is. So before telling him off, they listen. They are brilliant at breaking deadlocks by helping their child deal with difficult feelings.

PHYSICAL PARENTS realise that there don’t always have to be deep psychological reasons for bad behaviour; sometimes children get ratty because they are exhausted, cooped up for too long in front of the television or juddering with sugar. They know that if their child feels well she will usually behave well — that she will be far less grumpy if she isn’t full of junk food, has a run round the park and gets a good night’s sleep. They also know a hug can work miracles.

SORTED PARENTS stay one step ahead of their child. Getting themselves and their children organised removes a whole layer of stress. If children know in advance when the television is going to be switched off or who is going to get the window seat in the car, they are far less likely to argue about it. Being a sorted parent is about seizing the upper hand and refusing to be a victim of fluctuating circumstances.

COMMANDO PARENTS have no-nonsense authority and are good at being in charge. They get things done without shouting, nagging or being bossy and everyone knows where they stand with them. ‘The juice is spilt, we need a cloth’ works much better than ‘You’re so naughty — clean up that mess now!’ LAID-BACK PARENTS manage to chill out and encourage their child to do things himself, rather than controlling every aspect of his life. They trust their children’s judgment and encourage them to develop their independence. Asking a child for solutions gets his brain working and helps him to feel more confident.

THE MOST important beauty issue for women approaching 40 is how to reverse the ageing process. Increasing numbers of Londoners are opting for surgery to banish wrinkles and sagging skin but there are less drastic options if you want to look 10 years younger.

The natural path involves using creams and trying holistic health treatments to improve the appearance of skin. Or there is the scientific approach ‹ cuttingedge anti-ageing technology such as oxygen treatments and chemical peels.

So is natural or hi-tech more effective? We asked Liz Hoggard and Caroline Phillips to try the latest rejuvenation treatments and report on the results.

NATURAL ANTI-AGEING PROGRAMME, NEAL’S YARD

The problem: It was being photographed in direct sunlight at 8am that did it.

Last summer I did a shoot outdoors for this newspaper and the results were terrifying. For years I had battled oily, teenage skin but now suddenly I had the ravaged complexion of Rider Haggard’s She. I knew I’d been overdoing the fun but I hadn’t realised quite how washed out I looked.

What is it? Neal’s Yard tailor-made me a six-week anti-ageing programme, based around its holistic treatments and remedies. Aimed at the more “mature” woman (euphemism for anyone who feels their skin may be losing its bloom and needs to shed a few pounds), the programme sets out to boost your energy and vitality over six weeks using herbal remedies, essential oils and other therapies, thereby rejuvenating skin and perking up sagging muscle systems. In short: no Botox, no bullying.

Who does it? Initially I went for a consultation with homeopath Susan Curtis, director of medicines at Neal’s Yard. She quickly identified that I have quite a bonkers lifestyle, which was probably contributing to signs of ageing, so it was a question of making subtle changes that I could manage.

This meant dropping the quick fixes ‹ caffeine, alcohol, tobacco ‹ which rob your body of key stress-busting nutrients ‹ stress is a key factor in the ageing process.

She also gave me practical advice on everything from diet (cut out soya to avoid bloating) and joints (take up yoga) to eyesight (eating blueberries offers major benefits in preventing and treating eye disorders).

The treatment: I had a detox aromatherapy massage, where essential oils are applied to your skin to alleviate stress and eliminate toxins. Emma the therapist spent time finding out my mood and background, before making up a blend of neroli (to soothe), cardamom (to comfort) and mandarin (to refresh).

On my second visit, she did a facial diagnosis to check for any signs of inner health problems, then applied Palmarosa Purifying Mask to my oily T-Zone and White Tea Enriching Facial Mask on cheeks and forehead (to counteract the crumbly effect spotted in the photos). For daytime she recommended using Orange Flower Facial Oil, which reduces fine lines and balances moisture levels.

Both treatments leave you feeling fantastic. But learning to relax was trickier. Emma teased that just as she was still saying, “So if you’d like to get up slowly,” I was already upright in my shoes, raring to get out the door.

Does it work? Being listened to and pampered is incredibly good for you. And Neal’s Yard has just the right combination of tact and insight. When women spend a terrifying £539 million a year going under the knife, it seems a far more humane alternative. No, of course I haven’t done the yoga. But I am trying to relax and burning organic essential oils at night.

But the real find is the Organic Beauty Oil (£8.95 for 200ml), which you take internally as a supplement.

A cold-pressed oil made from flax, hemp, pumpkin, avocado and evening primrose oil, it is the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted, but my skin seems clearer and less sensitive after a month. Hardcore fans suggest you sprinkle it as a salad dressing if you really can’t bear the taste.

Neal’s Yard Remedies, Covent Garden, Blackheath, Richmond and Foubert’s Place (www.neals yardremedies.com; 0845 262 3145).

£65 for an hour’s holistic massage including consultation; £50 for an aromatherapy massage; £160 for a tailored anti-ageing package.

LH

CARBOXY THERAPY (CO) AND THE ULTIMATE FACE LIFT LASER TREATMENT

The problem: I wanted a face that looks 10 years younger than its 48 years. I’d always believed laughter to be the best medicine but that’s left me with unamusing crevices beside my lips. My brow looks like the “before” ad for Botox. And too many summer holidays have left me with sun spots.

What is it? Two treatments that require a degree in rocket science to understand. Carboxy Therapy (CO2) and the Ultimate Face Lift laser treatment (UFL).

Claiming to be the biggest breakthrough in beauty therapy since Botox, CO2 is said to eliminate cellulite, stretch marks, fat, psoriasis and scars and fight age, by rejuvenating wrinkly, loose skin. In the US, predictably, they’re even testing it to remedy impotence.

And the UFL? It helps reduce thread veins, sun spots, laughter lines, open pores, sagging jowls, wrinkles, zits and eye bags – stimulating elastin and collagen and plumping up the skin.

Both treatments act on the collagen and the tissue beneath the skin’s surface ‹ in effect giving a face lift but rejuvenating the skin at the same time.

In CO2, natural gas is administered ‹ great for those scared of Botox.

Who does it: Parisian Dr Daniel Sister, a man with a French accent and Dolce & Gabbana suit. The first doctor to practise Carboxy Therapy (CO2) in the UK and a grand fromage in “the happiness business”.

The treatment: “Ha! You’re having the needle today,” laughs Dr Sister, after gleefully showing me photos of clients’ faces and chicken-wing upper arms that he has turned into spring-chicken ones with his magical needles. I’m a wimp so I’ve opted for carbon dioxide (invisible and odorless gas that’s in the air) being injected subcutaneously into my face with a weeny needle ‹ the latest weapon of Hollywood A-listers.

The gas apparently improves blood flow, bringing a rush of oxygen, helping the body’s drainage system, promoting the renewal of elastin fibres and collagen and mechanically breaking down fat cells.

The doctor sticks 10 needles into my face in as many minutes. These injections sting, like mosquito bites.

Then gas bubbles through my skin which the good doctor massages to distribute the gas. I have five sessions of CO2 (twice weekly) for 15 minutes.

Sometimes I end up with tiny bruises on my jaw, as if my children have pinched me.

This gentle torture is combined with four 90-minute monthly sessions of UFL. This involves three different types of laser therapy for different layers of the skin. With the Aurora part of the treatment, which reduces surface blemishes, a headpiece is pressed against my face for 20 minutes. It throws out a flash of red light and heat, and feels like a slight electric shock or being pricked with hot needles.

In Act II, the ReFirme part of the treatment, RF (Radio Frequency) and IR (infrared) heat the dermal tissue to 55 degrees to stimulate collagen production and tighten the skin. Next anaesthetic cream is smeared on my skin and I walk up the corridor for Polaris treatment with Dr Sister. This uses a RF laser light which works even deeper into the dermis to stimulate more collagen and “rub out” my remaining wrinkles.

Does it work? Brilliantly. Although it takes seven hours 15 minutes (less than the average working day) in total, results are seen almost immediately.

My skin looks brighter, fresher, smoother, firmer and younger.

Forty-two years old, perhaps. My nineyear-old scrutinises my face and, unprompted, tells me my “wrigglies” (wrinkles) are disappearing. But my husband still hasn’t noticed.

Notting Hill’s BeautyWorksWest (www.beautyworkswest.com; 020 7221 2248). Five x CO2 at £100 per session, four x UFL at £450 per session, grand total: £2,300. Top-up is recommended after six months.

WHEN it comes to using interior space effectively, the McKenna family has got it totally worked out. They sleep on beds so high up their walls, they are close to the ceilings and utilise the space below. They work on laptops, eat, read, sleep, listen to music and watch television, often all in the same room.

A lot happens in the McKenna family’s stylish 1,200sq ft, two-bedroom, one-bathroom north London home. Indeed, at one stage, five of them lived there, which included a male au pair who slept in the “cupboard” bedroom.

Not only do the handsome family of four (Nancy, Bill and their student sons, William and Mark) all have their beds raised on bespoke steel frames 7ft off the ground, but shelves, storage space and televisions are also fitted at that level.

“The flat does not appear small to us because it has 14ft ceilings, and using that upper wall area means we have effectively added 50 per cent more space,” explains Bill, professor and clinical director of cardiology at UCLH. His wife, Nancy, adds that their methods mean the home is easier to keep clean. She also has an 800sq ft studio at the bottom of their garden.

Bill and Nancy used to live in Montreal but left Canada in 1976. “We came for a year,” laughs Nancy, a photographer, film-maker and founder of SafeHands, a charity dedicated to reducing maternal mortality and safeguarding the health of newborns. But then they found themselves staying, and in 1983 discovered this apartment.

“We bought it on the recommendation of an artist friend,” reveals Nancy, who, like the rest of her family, is clad in sports gear (Nancy did a degree in PE and met Bill, then captain of the university football team, through sport). “Another artist had been living here. Our kitchen was his studio, our boiler cupboard was his kitchen, there was no central heating and the property cost £60,000. Everything had to be redone.” Through painting the flat entirely in white, fitting a lot of mirrors to reflect the light and laying a light beech floor that flows throughout, the apartment feels spacious and contemporary..

There are also huge windows everywhere and clever lighting. “Most people design and furnish the house and then think about the lighting afterwards,” asserts Nancy. “But, probably because of my photographer’s eye, I think that should come first.” She worked on the lighting design with Maty

Grunberg, an artist friend who also created the beautiful pictures in the apartment. Many of the fittings (“mostly Italian, very expensive and classical”) still look great after 20 years. “Dimmers are essential throughout a small space, as they allow different moods at different times.” We are sitting in their fabulous Alternative Plans kitchen. It is the focus of the flat, with its white-lacquer Hacker cupboards, dark-grey basalt-stone work surfaces, stainless-steel splashbacks and real African-style fire. “Sometimes we cook on it,” says Nancy.

Juxtaposed with the clean, modern lines are old pine chairs and table (today it is being used as William’s office) and African wooden sculptures ‹ all symbolising fertility and pregnancy, reflecting Nancy’s involvement with the charity for safe motherhood and childbirth.

As we wander around their home she tells me that the au pair lived in the broom cupboardcum-boiler room (now used for storage) with a bed up a metal ladder. “We used to have a toilet in there, too,” laughs Nancy. “We always chose au pairs from big families because they would be used to lack of privacy.” Next door is the marital bedroom, which doubles as an office and library. Designed by Maty and executed by their friend, Asaf Tolkovsky, the frame of the 5ft bed is fashioned from steel.

Nancy is 5ft 9in tall. “But we’ve always had small beds. When we go away, the boys take it in turns to sleep in it.” Underneath the bed are beautiful his-and-hers cherrywood desks designed by Tolkovsky. The wall of mirrored cupboards has a flat-screen TV on top. “The only thing we don’t have in here is a gym,” jokes Bill. NEXT door, the boys’ shared bedroom has firemen’s poles, down which they shoot from their beds, which are themselves surrounded by curtains.

“The idea is to pull the drapes like on berths on a train. You get used to no privacy and sharing a bathroom ‹ one minute you are in there alone, the next moment Dad’s jumping into the shower,” laughs Mark.

Then there’s the sitting room, which pays homage to seminal designer Eileen Gray with its sofa, daybed, occasional table and coffee table.

Paintings and Nancy’s powerful black-and-white photographs of women and children are propped against the walls. “As I get older I become more minimalist. I prefer empty walls,” she says.

A woman with prodigious energy and a refreshingly unconventional approach to life, Nancy has cast her magic over the flat. “We have never wanted to move. Instead, we have bought homes for holidays in rural Spain and France.” Artwork by Nancy McKenna and other artists is on sale at the Art for Life Auction (proceeds to SafeHands), 6pm to 10pm 6 March, Mary Ward House, 5-7 Tavistock Place,WC1. Tickets from ndm@safehands.org.

THERE’S nothing outside the elegant stucco Chelsea townhouse to indicate the extraordinary things that go on inside.

Nothing to show why the rich, famous and just plain troubled now store this discreet address in their BlackBerries. A peer of the realm and a young woman stand on the pavement chatting. “It’s great that you’re also dealing with your sex compulsion,” she says. He smiles.

“Is that an acupuncture stud in your ear?” he answers.

“No,” she responds. “A magnet. I press it to release endorphins and serotonin.” These are patients at The Recovery Centre, a private clinic that offers just five clients at any time for £1,200 a day a bespoke treatment for addictions within the walls of a smart residential London house. There is a choice of more than 80 freelance counsellors plus some off-beat “therapies” ‹ from playing polo, gokarting and watching butterflies to shopping in Bond Street with a personal shopper, about which more later.

Despite its bizarre approach and high fees, such is the demand that within little more than six months of opening in November last year, the owners have rejected a bid to be bought out and are now planning further centres in Notting Hill, Primrose Hill and the City.

The centre is the brainchild of Charisse Cooke, 29, a south African psychologist, and Robert Batt, 40, a former drug addict and aristocrat who, aged six, inherited his family’s Norfolk estate and 24 cottages. He swapped snorting “shed-loads” of cocaine, spending £50,000 on shopping in one day and driving one of his Ferraris drunkenly through a field for eight years of personal recovery, a psychology masters degree and personally financing The Recovery Centre.

Cooke and Batt’s brand of therapy attracts aristocrats, rock stars and millionaires.

It has become the treatment centre of choice for one supermodel.

“An estimated one in 10 of the population suffers from addiction,” says Dr Robert Lefever, a world authority on the subject and the man for whom Batt and Cooke worked for five years at the Promis clinic.

I’m visiting the centre to experience two days of treatment ‹ to top up the regular therapy I’ve been doing for the past 19 years after successfully recovering from an eating disorder, amphetamine addiction and alcoholism in my early twenties.

I came from a classic dysfunctional family ‹ my mother walked out when I was 12 and before that I’d had to deal with her mental illness. When I was 21 and at Bristol University, I saw a consultant psychiatrist in Harley Street. I was so intimidated at having to expose myself psychologically that I would take amphetamines before visits. The psychiatrist helped me but also colluded in my addictive behaviour. “You’re not an addict,” said the good doctor.

“You don’t take pills every day.” When I went to work in Fleet Street, I started drinking and bingeing. I appeared to have it all: a good job, nice flat, fast car, friends. But inside I was desolate, lonely and often suicidal. It was after I spent a weekend hidden in my flat alone, crying inconsolably that a friend with whom I’d lived told me about Promis.

She talked openly about her eating disorder ‹ which had been such a shameful and secretive disease for me..

She was full of hope and happiness. So I checked into Promis for addiction counselling. After that, I spent five years in psychoanalysis and graduated to a psychoanalytical psychotherapy group.

Treatment at Promis saved my life ‹ but it was tough love. So I’m curious to see how different the luxury atmosphere of The Recovery Centre will be.

Cooke greets me wreathed in smiles.

“We were just talking about Treatment Chic,” she laughs, sporting a Hermès belt. I nip into the bathroom: it’s marble with fluffy white towels, Jo Malone soap and luxurious Diptique candles burning. But this is no urban retreatstyle spa. If addicts are recovering here, there will also be tears and hurt aplenty.

It’s 9am and time for my appointment with Cooke, who has designed my personal programme. Questions cover everything from whether I’ve ever prostituted myself to whether I suffer from sexual anorexia, exercise obsession or have a criminal history. Having said no to the first two and admitted to shoplifting, aged 19, and a nascent exercise obsession, we move on. I leave the session feeling exposed and vulnerable.

In between sessions, staff waft in and out like First Class air stewards saying, “Can I get you anything?” and returning with nuts and herbal teas. At lunch with four patients and Cooke, the chef dishes up risotto with black truffle shavings followed by sea bass on rocket salad. The food may be fancy but conversation is authentic and poignant. A 24-year-old patient talks about the day her four-year-old son watched “problem drinkers” on Jeremy Kylie’s show then asked: “Mummy, are you an alcoholic?” Cooke hugs her.

By mid-afternoon I’ve already had three sessions: an interview with a psychologist, some experiential dynamic psychotherapy (AEDP) and 50 minutes with a performance enhancement specialist and have a cracking headache from such intensity. But it’s time for group therapy with Batt. Wearing a Savile Row suit and speaking like a Coldstream Guard, the regiment founded by his family, Batt prods and pokes psychologically.

Batt says he’s watching my eyes darting around, “filtering” what I’m going to say. He remarks upon my breathing becoming more shallow. “I feel tearful,” he adds, wanting me to talk, “as if my gut is being wrenched and contorted.” I squirm. I’m not used to therapists sharing their emotions.

Immediately after group therapy, Cooke bounces in giggling. “Hello lovely ladies. Let’s change the atmosphere in here. Let’s play a game.” We each pull a piece of paper out of a glass and follow its directions. “Your secret wish …” is one. “Reveal your most embarrassing moment Š” is another.

My answer? Running down a Kensington street as a dare, stoned and wearing only a moped helmet. It’s the kind of party game I’d play when I was drunk.

Puerile perhaps. But it offers welcome light relief. This style of treatment is Batt and Cooke’s idiosyncratic vision: the way that Batt himself got “clean”.

Aged 14, he drank a litre of whisky at Harrow, spent two days unconscious while friends shouted out his name in roll call, then graduated to a cocaine and shopping habit. Batt got clean with the help of friends, (“other recovering addicts”) and an ongoing mixture of “yoga, therapy, helping other people, contemplating nature, having fun and med- itation”. With this in mind, he recently directed one patient to take creative writing lessons with novelist Raffaella Barker; escorted another to the Syon Park butterfly house (“It helped him get in touch with his inner child”); refused to treat one unless she took tap-dancing lessons; and sent several out shopping with Sally Bardsley, erstwhile personal stylist to Princess Diana and Madonna.

Some critics will find these bizarre therapies silly. Others, like myself, may consider the hugging, hand-holding and the overlap between therapists with patients to be lacking in boundaries.

I am slightly apprehensive on my second day. What is in store for me? A former theatre director turned drama therapist (“I believe in anonymity,” he says,) works with four of us. “When you were young, who was the dominant character in your household and what were their Ten Commandments (or rules)?” We write our lists, my mother’s “Commandments” suddenly spilling out of me. Then we enact a dinner scene, each member of the group becoming one of my family members, to debate the “rules”.

NEXT in art therapy with Maddi Strong we use plastic toys to enact stories that become very self-revealing.

The Recovery Centre believes in creative “play”. “Psychoanalysis and long-term therapies have their place in treating addictions,” says Charisse. “However, addicts initially respond more readily to more humanistic and supportive therapies.” After two days, I feel wrung-out but also empowered. In each of the sessions I have learned something useful about myself, something to fine-tune my recovery, and I have also had some fun. My own experience of early recovery was that it was very painful facing my demons without the “anaesthetic”.

It’s too early to tell whether Batt’s patients will achieve long-term recovery.

But they seem to be getting well.

You could argue the centre’s approach is elitist, recovery only for the wealthy.

Fortunately, most people get well ‹ for no more than minimal voluntary donations ‹ through fellowships like Alcoholics Anonymous in draughty church halls.

But to focus on the centre’s “swish” factor is to miss the point. “If you’re at rock bottom, lobster and cream carpets won’t heal you,” comments NHS and private psychotherapist Lili Reinisch.

A WALK around Selfridges was once my idea of aerobic exertion.

Then a few months ago my brain synapses must have got twisted, because I started working out thrice weekly.

I was able to run, say, for 40 minutes without stopping. And I was able to swim gentle lengths of breaststroke.

But when a friend suggested doing a triathlon – that’s swimming outdoors, biking and running over silly distances – I should have checked into rehab.

But at the age of 47 and with two children, a mid-life crisis was looming.

Not to mention a sense (a legacy of having had an eating disorder) of never seeing myself as slim enough, plus a desire to get really fit and raise money for ChildLine.

Undeterred by my general lack of fitness, I visited Simon Costain (Paula Radcliffe’s podiatrist) who videoed me running, took a cast of my soles for orthotics and pronounced me fit to run on both feet.

I went home, signed up to Britain’s fastest- growing sport, then tripped over my own feet, damaged my coccyx and was scarcely able to move for three weeks. I felt miserable. My first challenge, a Super Sprint distance at Blenheim, was looming in June. It’s the shortest of the triathlon races ‹ 400m swim, 13.2k bike and 2.9k run ‹ but felt like an enormous goal for me.

By March I had joined the Herbalife Triathlon Training Academy ‹ which offers coaching, normally available only to the elite, to the country’s four most promising grassroots triathletes (selected from 15,000 entries) and to a few interested journalists.

At our first session, everything the mustachioed legend-cum- Olympic coach, Bill Black, said filled me with horror: the idea of jumping into murky water with hundreds of people and not having lines on a pool floor to show me where to go; the sheer distance and different disciplines to be negotiated; the amount of training to juggle with commitments to work, husband and children.

“What’s the minimum training I can do?” I asked dolefully.

“Up to you,” replied Bill, fixing his look on a man doing 15 hours a week. The experience tipped me into retail therapy at Swim Bike Run (SBR) Sports where I left £1,200 lighter and with a sexy bike.

Next I had to tackle learning to swim properly. Coach Daniel Bullock at Swim for Tri in Brick Lane’s Old

Brewery attempted to conquer my fear of swimming freestyle by filming my underwater mistakes and projecting my flailing whale impressions onto a plasma screen.

My next stop, in May, was an Academy training weekend in Eastbourne, with a clutch of superfit athletes, coach Bill and “mental performance lifestyle coach” Midgie Thompson, a sportswoman with a French manicure who helped me through some of my disheartened moments, about which more later.

As soon as we arrived we were ordered to get running. We set off like racehorses, scaling a road that was at right angles to the ground, crossing the Downs and doing a twomile loop across mountainous terrain with a gale blowing in our faces..

Puffing behind those sleek triathlon machines with a mounting sense of despair, I had the feeling that I might be about to meet my Maker.

“Imagine you have wings on you.

Where are they taking you?” panted Midgie, doing creative visualisation.

“To hell,” I replied. But I got through the run at my own pace. And afterwards I felt elated by the bracing air, endorphins and jolly company.

Afterwards we swam drills for two hours. I’d never done that much exercise in my life, but the problem with triathlon training is that you have to remember so much kit, 35 basic items, and two of us had forgotten our towels. So I dried myself with loo paper, then fell asleep at 5pm.

The exhaustion of persistent exercise that weekend ended with a sense of exhilaration ‹ achievement coupled with serotonin, I imagine. After that, I turned into a real athlete and developed a serious pill habit, popping 18 natural supplements a day, courtesy of Higher Nature. Rapidly my skin became clear, my nails and hair got stronger and my energy levels soared.

Less than two months after I had started training, I began to enjoy exercise, training nearly an hour a day, four to six times a week. I’d confide in Midgie during our phone consultations that I was too fat/ nearly 50/that everyone else would be better and faster/that I hadn’t done enough training/and that I lacked motivation. Midgie would help me turn the internal dialogue into positives: what a fantastic achievement, many younger people couldn’t do this/I’ve done ample given my other commitments.

Often I ran with my psychotherapist friend Lily, (thereby tending my madness and hamstrings simultaneously) or biked around parks.

The big day was fast approaching.

Fearing triathlon humiliation, I swam in the Serpentine amid the killer swans: triathlon lore has it that they attack swimmers. The hardy octogenarian swimmers who belong to the (self-dubbed) “Royal Serpentine Hernia Club” call the wet-besuited triathletes “Rubber Johnnies”. I loved being in the fresh air. But swimming in bird poo and looking like a wally clambering around in a wet suit in a Royal park? I hated that.

Blenheim day dawned. Midgie had agreed to run alongside me, for mental support. It was a hot day but as we descended like hundreds of rubber tadpoles into the freezing water, it took my breath away. I managed a mixture of swallowing water, panic, breast stroke and crawl. I forgot most of the techniques I’d fought so hard to learn. Midgie ploughed in front of me yelling, “Come on Caroline you can do it.” Rescue canoes came over to us three times. I was thinking, “Never again.”

But I did it! Then we reached the banks, ran up an outrageously steep hill, sped off on our bikes and pedalled furiously around Blenheim’s beautiful Capability Brown-designed landscape. The weather was perfect, the crowds supportive and, having worked so hard to get here, I had a huge sense of achievement.

After returning our bikes to the “transition” area, I ran off, losing Midgie. It didn’t matter. As I crossed the finishing line, I received a hero’s welcome. I’d finished ahead of the twentysomethings, in Olympic time. Then it dawned.

As the marshals fussed over me, I realised that I’d, er, missed out a running lap. Disqualified but not beaten, I followed Bill’s (psychologically brilliant) instructions and went back and finished the race. I still completed the course in a (very) respectable one hour 20 minutes.

There was something uplifting about showing our daughters (aged nine and 11) how anything is possible if you try hard enough..

So, now, on Saturday, I’m racing in the London Triathlon, swimming front crawl amid abandoned cars in Docklands and cycling and running over what could be several hundred miles if I get lost again.

But if all goes to plan, I’ll do a Sprint distance which is a 750m swim, 20km bike ride and 5km run.

That’ll be double what I did at Blenheim. And I hope to raise £10,000 for the NSPCC’s ChildLine services. I feel proud that, with the help of my younger brother, Simon, I’ve already raised £5,000.

Looking back, I’ve loved my recent training, and its intensity, have enjoyed meeting triathletes and have revelled in my new-found focus, positivity and energy. I’ll miss having a goal and feel out of sorts on days when I don’t exercise.

But I feel apprehensive about the race. I feel scared that I may be unable to complete the swim. (After all, it is the equivalent of 30 lengths of a 25m pool). And I feel nervous that I may not be able to manage a run after all that biking and swimming.

But that’s how I felt before Blenheim. Anyway I don’t have to be fast. I’d just like to finish the race.

So if you see number 3433 getting lost, point me in the right direction.

To sponsor Caroline go to www.justgiving.com/carolinephillips

FROM INNER TUBES TO SWIM COACHES – ALL YOU NEED TO COMPETE

THE KIT

>From SBR Sports (01753 830118, www.sbrsports.com) LeMond Etape bike £600 Helmet £49.99 Pedals £9.99 Bottle cage £7.99 Pump £12.99 Bike computer £34.99 Saddle bag £12.99 Inner tube £4.99 Tyre levers £2.99 Orca Tri top and pants £80

Race belt £5.99 Elastic laces £5.99 Asics trainers £85 Bottle £3.50 Orca wetsuit £250 Turbo trainer £179 Kryptonite bike lock £29.99 Cycling glasses £29.99 Anti-blister socks £12.99 Rehydration tablets £4.99/pack Natural supplements from Higher Nature £55 per week (0800 458 4747; www.highernature.co.uk )

THE SUPPORT

Olympic coach Bill Black, www.billblackcoaching.com, prices from £60 an hour.

Midgie Thompson, mental performance and lifestyle coach, www.brightfuturescoaching.com, £100 an hour.

John Beaton, masseuse at the Harbour Club, www.harbourclub.co.uk, £45 an hour..

Daniel Bullock at Swim for Tri, www.swimfortri.com, first consultation £75; thereafter £50 an hour.

HALF TRIATHLON ENTRY COSTS

London: £69 Blenheim: £59 Royal Serpentine Swimming Club: membership £20

THE 2007 MICHELOB ULTRA LONDON TRIATHLON

THE London Triathlon is a great two-day event for spectators. Held in and around ExCeL in London’s Docklands (take the Docklands Light Railway to Custom House), it attracts more than 12,000 people competing in the world’s largest triathlon. There are a variety of locations for the expected 45,000 spectators ‹ some under cover ‹ and a big screen in the ExCel centre, not to mention restaurants and dockside cafes.

Saturday is for the amateurs like myself who are competing in the half-triathlon ‹ catch me and 430 others in the Female Sprint Group 2 starting at 2.30pm..

On Sunday, world-class athletes including current World Champion Tim Don and Olympic silver medalist Bevan Docherty will be vying for the fastest times in the full Olympic triathlon which requires a 1.5km open-water swim, 40km bike ride and 20km run.

For those wanting a break from trying to glimpse their loved ones whizzing past, there will also be a huge Expo held in the main hall with retailers such as SBR Sports and professionals on hand to help anyone keen to learn more about the UK’s fastest growing sport ‹ triathlons.

www.thelondontriathlon.com

HOW I GOT FIT ENOUGH TO DO A TRIATHLON

When I started triathlon training, my coach Bill told me that if I could do the distance in each discipline individually, then I could do the whole thing. I found this very motivating. Here is how my fitness was transformed in under four months:

SWIMMING

Before Although I could do a mile in breaststroke, when feeling fit, I’d never mastered front crawl, or freestyle as it’s referred to by triathletes.

During You need to be able to do front crawl for triathlons, especially in a wetsuit, which doesn’t lend itself to breaststroke. I took lessons with Swim For Tri at the Old Truman Brewery and was talked through the correct technique before trying it in front of my coach, who corrected me until I could stay afloat. Then I went off to try it out on my own.

I practised at least once a week at my local baths, and attended four Swim For Tri sessions. An underwater camera recorded my style, which was then critiqued by experts. Then I went in the endless pool ‹ swimming against an adjustable current ‹ while adjusting my style for maximum performance.

Once a week I went to Kensington Leisure Centre, where I repeated exercises to improve my stroke. I swam alongside a woman who’d just swum round Alcatraz, and another who’d completed the Iron Woman Challenge. They were supportive.

To acclimatise and build confidence for swimming across open stretches I did laps of the Serpentine.

Now This week I completed an hour of drills, breaking for only a few seconds between 100m sprints. Recently I did a two-hour freestyle swimming session ‹ with short breaks..

CYCLING

Before I didn’t even own a bike. Occasionally I’d borrow my 11-year-old daughter’s bicycle to do the school run ‹ on the pavement. I never cycled for exercise.

During I started with the attitude that “anyone can cycle”, which may not have been sensible, but it made the task ahead less intimidating.

In April, on a sleek lightweight bike, I discovered that racing tyres have no proper grip. I struggled through a rain-sodden two-hour training ride, finding out that you get cold when you stop, so it’s better to soldier on.

At first my training schedule was virtually nonexistent.

I only wanted to cycle on pavements and paths, so lengthy stamina-building road training didn’t appeal. Instead I visited the country every three weeks and cycled downhill on country lanes for an hour. My theory was that I could build up resistance through running and swimming.

Recently I began longer, more serious cycles, doing circuits of Regent’s Park and Richmond Park with a friend’s husband.

Two weeks ago I even took a 45-minute spin class at my gym ‹ now that was seriously tough.

Now I can cycle like a pro for 90 minutes on my lovely LeMond bike..

RUNNING

Before I’d started running about a year and a half before deciding to compete in a triathlon. So, when the training began I could run for a respectable 40 minutes, which I did two or three times a week through Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens.

During My real training began in March. I joined the Herbalife Triathlon Training Academy where Bill told me it’s possible to train for a short triathlon, such as the Blenheim Sprint, in just six to eight weeks.

In May I went off to a two-day workshop in Eastbourne which involved running gruelling twomile circuits. It was an intensive experience, but if anything I found it more terrifying than inspiring.

Bill sent me precise training schedules, which I was to follow week by week, gradually building up my running distance. But instead of sticking to his regime, I trained at my own pace.

Every week I made sure I did at least one long run, for at least an hour. When my sister-in-law accompanied me, she brought an athlete’s flak jacket to weigh me down. I still managed to complete the run. Each week I made sure to have at least one day’s rest. You improve a lot by letting your muscles relax.

MUMBAI – as Bombay is now known – may not be the fist place that comes to mind when planning a shopping spree in search of homeware. But for about £1,000 (which includes return air fare, a Sheraton hotel room and a day with spent with a car a driver and a personal shopper), you can take a long weekend in the Indian business capital and come home laden with home goodies. Traveltakes about the same time as flying to New York.

Over the phone, Tanya at specialist firm reaves Tours sings the praises of Mumbaibased über-shopper, Monica Vazirelli. Vazirelli is a former interior designer with a packed contacts book and can, apparently snap her fingers and get things made, copied and shipped in an instant. She can find antiques in back alleys for next o nothing, and unearth silverware and raw-silk upholstered sofas.

Vazirelli is, by al accounts, the Trinny and Susannah of the sub-continental decorating world.

Mumbai is city throbbing with energy and is not an easy place to master. Britons find it almost impossible to buy prperty there and residential rentals can be sky-high. But shopping in the city – whichstarts with a Sheraton curry breakfast and an Ayurvedic massage in the fivestar hotel’s spa – ws never such fun in London.

I meet Vazirelli at 11.30am, the recognised start of any Mumbai shopping day. Resplendent in orange nd pink with long silver hair and gold sandals, she quickly plans my itinerary. I want bepoke leather ottomans (I’ve spent a year failing to find them in a particular size in London), three rough-silk blinds for our bay window, cushions with chain stitch, and Š well, I’m still waving my list as we drive off.

Vazirelli soon proves worth her weight in god (or indeed silver, if we’re talking about handmade, beaten, silverclad funiture). I could never have found these places on my own.

We are chuffeured from Phillips (perfect for kitsch iconography and Victoriana) to Moorthy’s Antiques Warehouse – just down that alleyway, past the banyan trees and tucked under an overhanging corrugated rof – for colonial furniture, spiral staircases and Kerala carved columns.

At Bharat Funishings I buy “antique rose” cotton damask (£8 a metre); in Kala Niketan, amid sais and bangles, we choose exquisite raw silk (£3 a metre). D Popli offers a mine f jewellery and great silver boxes, frames and candlesticks – at tin prices – and, at Pllate, there are acres of Asian contemporary design on display and, oh, such cushions hen there are the leather hides in the Muslim quarter, and the master tailor, Kishor, at Choice, wo makes my silk into beautiful blinds in four days (less than £250 for three blinds, incuding the fabric).

Vazirelli makes this so easy because, unlike me, she speaks Hindi, knows where places are (unlike the tai drivers), isn’t on commission, gets fair prices, stops me dithering, saves me from myworst style mistakes and even helps me cross the roads (a feat in itself). She also getsitems loaned (on approval) and persuades me to pay for items that will be delivered lter. Ah, such trust.

For lunch she takes me to the (members only) Willingdon Club, wher ladies play bridge and gentlemen ring bells for the waiters’ attention. In the evenig we attend a contemporary Indian art auction at the Taj hotel, where shouting “lakh” is a pice in millions and not a comment on the art.

On the way back, we must make our way in thedart through a 3,000-strong wedding party; there are fireworks, tambourines and raucus street vendors: Peter Jones this ain’t.