X Factor Final: Results

As the winner of television's The Face of London competition, I feel I speak with experience, and an element of authority, when I say "Rhydian - you were robbed! You sang with the voice of an angel and conducted yourself throughout with dignity. And that, after all, is what winning is all about. So do not despair. Listen to Harriet Rose who sometimes knows what she's talking about. Read her Meditation 35 from 'The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose and know that you are a true winner. Congratulations, Rhydian!"

Meditation 35

'I once lost a race when I'd won it.
It taught me that life's seldom fair.
I watched while they made losers winners,
Pretending that I didn't care.

I've tasted the beauty of winning.
I've savoured the joy of success.
I've relished the failure of rivals.
I've longed for perfection, no less.

But now when they make me a winner
I hesitate as they applaud.
For winning can sometimes be losing.
Perfection is often best flawed.

So tell me I've won, but with caution
Remind me of others who failed.
And we'll all wait for that final curtain
To teach us what winning entailed.'

I was once asked why I wrote my Meditations. I answered that I wanted to make people think - about subjects they may not have considered before or that they had considered but not from the Harriet Rose perspective. So when I Googled The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose and discovered that people in faraway countries are quoting and recommending my Meditations and taking time to reflect on them (www.blogmoon.blogspot.com) , it made me want to cry with joy, and laugh too. Strange that a response can entail two such opposing sentiments - different and yet the same.

So, my message for today is to keep reading my Meditations, all you out there in Singapore, Malaysia, South Africa, Australia, Holland and the many other discerning countries of the world. And thank you all for your part in spreading the word of Harriet Rose.

Now that I'm an established author whose meditations are even being quoted internationally, I decided yesterday to try my hand at short story writing. It was harder than I'd thought it would be. At school we're given essay titles which help to focus the mind. But when you can write about anything at all, it's much harder.

My first attempt was about a self-taught viloinist who turns down a marriage proposal because she doesn't respect the manner in which she is asked - over a Chicken Biryani in her flat with Question Time on in the background. When I'd finished it (and I knew I had because the proposal was finally acceptable) I read it over then put a line right the way through it. What else could I do? Of all the subjects in the world to write about, of all the views close to my heart I could have put across, of all the people I had met and admired, I had chosen to describe a self-taught violinist and a Chicken Biryani. And I don't even like Chicken Biryani. And I can't even play the violin. And I've never even had a marriage proposal.

So I tried again. This time, I was happier with the content. A successful and beautiful young woman (and already I felt this heroine was someone I could relate to) suddenly decides to have a flatmate, to the horror of her admiring Russian boyfriend - a violinist (my persistent obsession with the violin took even me by surprise). I liked the storyline because it had a twist - the flatmate is assumed throughout to be a young woman - she's full of life and strong-willed and attractive to men who are drawn to her vibrant, outspoken personality. It's not until the end that the reader discovers the flatmate is eighty-five. At least this time I had written about characters I admired. But I feared that some readers might feel that the heroine had made the wrong choice in turning down the opportunity to live with the Russian violinist in favour of her eighty-five year old Great Aunt. Personally, I thought she made exactly the right choice, but I had my readers to consider.

I didn't try again after that. Short stories, I decided, were not for Harriet Rose. I may be able to condense my thoughts into Meditations, but I cannot condense my characters - they have too much to say.

When I'm asked if I have a boyfriend, I never know what to say. I find the whole concept of 'boyfriend' a curious one. A friend who is a boy? I have several of those. Yet when the two words are juxtaposed they seem to take on an entirely different meaning, like egg and cress sandwiches - each ingredient boring on its own but delicious once you put them together. Not that I consider a 'boyfriend' delicious. It's concepts I'm discussing rather than their implications. Philosophers will understand that, especially if they've ever mixed theirs with mayonnaise to bind the egg and cress together.

So what ingredient is it that similarly binds together a boy and a friend into that elusively indefinable concept 'boyfriend', used randomly to extend on occasion even to ageing lotharios who haven't been 'boys' for very many years? Wherein lies the mayonnaise of a 'boyfriend'? Not enough people reflect on such questions before answering them. And you should. Unless, of course, you don't care to answer questions truthfully, in which case you're not really someone worth talking to anyway.

Perhaps I'll find the answer when I have a boyfriend. Then again, perhaps I have one already and I don't know it. I'm referring, of course, to Jean Claude, a boy who's most certainly a friend, but, as Nana would say, a friend to who else? If asked, I think the safest solution might be to leave a small pause between the words 'boy' and 'friend' and then I shan't be saying anything untruthful. Like this:

"So, Harriet, is Jean Claude like your boyfriend then, or what?"

"Yes, Jason, Jean Claude is my boy" then the small pause, "friend."

That should do the trick.

Why can't someone invent a mirror that shows you what you look like the correct way round? Am I alone in not wanting to be reversed? Is Rabbie Burns the only other person to understand the importance of seeing yourself as others see you?

P.S. If such a mirror already exists, I apologise in advance and ask that the inventor be more ambitious in his or her sales campaign.

P.P.S. I could always lend you my own very successful sales representative - Nana - if necessary.

Those of you who have been with me from the start will recall that the title 'The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose' was taken from my Meditation 33 which I wrote on the day of my father's funeral. And now, less than two years later, those very words have been translated into several languages across the world. What I wrote in despair has become a reason for joy and celebration. My father would have liked that.

Why is 'why' so important to me
And why not 'who', 'what', 'where' or 'when'?
Why can't I be like the others I see
Who don't seek the motives of men?

I've searched for the truth
Through all of my youth,
But the answer I still cannot find.
Should I ask 'why' no more,
Close my eyes, shut the door?
Not while reason lives on in my mind.


Wore my t-shirt with 'Why?' across the chest today, very slightly raised at the 'W' and the 'y', understated, with a quiet hint of greater things to come. Nana said it looked daft, that people would think I didn't understand anything, that there was no point in 'Why?' when no-one knew what the question was, that I'd be better off with 'Because' than 'Why?', that at least then people would think I had the answer. I fear that Nana will never make a philosopher.

Ode to the reviewer who described me in a broadsheet newspaper as beautiful, confident, clever, successful, much-loved and loving

There are some who brush against your life
With the gentle touch of an angel's wing
Never knowing how much joy
That touch can bring
Your paths may never cross
You will not know them
But in their hearts
They'll hear a young girl sing

I looked up and saw the clouds parting in the sky
Torn by the dazzling light of the summer sun
I listened and heard the sound of a thousand angels
All gathered to applaud what this man had done
Loudly they heralded his arrival
With voices that were clear and pure and true
But of all the angels gathered there in heaven
None, Luciano, sang as well as you

'I once lost a race when I'd won it.
It taught me that life's seldom fair.
I watched while they made losers winners,
Pretending that I didn't care.

'I've tasted the beauty of winning.
I've savoured the joy of success.
I've relished the failure of rivals.
I've longed for perfection, no less.

'But now when they make me a winner
I hesitate as they applaud.
For winning can sometimes be losing.
Perfection is often best flawed.

'So tell me I've won, but with caution.
Remind me of others who've failed.
And we'll all wait for that final curtain
To teach us what winning entailed.'


So you have your copy of The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose and you've started to read all about me. After a few pages you'll think you know me very well. A few more and you'll wonder if you don't. Then you'll reach the end and you'll all form different opinions of me. I'll be discussed and compared, admired by some, disliked perhaps by others. There'll be those who think I have succeeded whilst a few no doubt will consider that I've failed. And some of your comments will make me so happy, and others will make me feel sad. Because The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose isn't just a book, it's an experience. And that is what the race is all about.

BREAKING NEWS

Tomorrow. 9th August 2007. A date in a diary. A page in a book. But it is not just a day: it is the day. A day to remember, when you wake up in the morning and plan what you are going to do. A day to enjoy when you make your way with nimble tread to your local bookshop. A day to savour, when you return home, clutching a long-awaited copy of The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose. For tomorrow is publication date for the first edition of the hardback. The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose, the book in which Diana Janney tells the story of my life. Or part of it anyway - there's too much to tell in just one book. So there you are. The day before tomorrow. Relish the moment.

I was about to say that Charlotte Goldman is a bitch, but why offend an innocent animal and a particularly loving and faithful one at that? So I'll stick to my original description of her, the one I gave her even before I knew how hard she was trying to ensnare Jean Claude - a mosquito, a tiny creature, insignificant to look at, noisy in intonation, a nuisance, always looking for someone to feed off, with a rather unpleasant bite which doesn't last long and most important of all, very easily squashed.

I'm back, which means by necessity that I must have been away. And what a time we had, the three of us! We were invited to a magnificent country house hotel as VIP guests of the owners. My mother and Nana said that I was the only VIP, but I know I would never have got this far without them. And to me, they're the VIPs. Always were and always will be. I would love to tell you all about our stay, but I can't as it would spoil your enjoyment of the book about me which is published in hardback next week. So you'll just have to wait.

It's time to sit down and re-assess. Fourteen years old and I've already achieved my greatest ambition - to turn down a date with someone I admire on a matter of principle. Strangely enough, I don't feel quite as fulfilled as I thought I would.

The first print run of my book has already sold out. Nana broke the news to us this morning. A second run has already been ordered, which apparently makes the first even more valuable, according to my mother. It's what authors and publishers long for. It means you've attained success and recognition and no-one can call you precocious or over-confident any more without making themselves seem stupid. I like that about it. I think I'll go to bed now without washing my face and looking in the mirror afterwards.

Some ask why I write meditations
And why not a diary instead
A diary shows what you've been doing
My book reveals what's in my head

It's not that I seek recognition
It's not that I long for success
It's just that I want to write something
That says what I am and no less

My book is for people who question
For questions show what we're about
I don't claim to have all the answers
- sometimes it's better to doubt

So open my book, but with caution
Remember that no thought is real
It lasts for as long as we think it
What matters is how we then feel

My mother, Nana and I were having lunch in an Italian restaurant in South Kensington. We used to go there often when my father was alive, but it was our first visit without him. The proprietor greeted us with such warmth and enthusiasm and exaggerated hand gestures that I had to check over my shoulder to make sure a proper celebrity wasn't about to push past me as if I was invisible through their big designer sunglasses. But then, when he offered us the best table in the restaurant - the one by the window where passers-by would see you and rush for a table - I realised that all the fuss was just for me (or Arriet Rosa as he insisted on calling me).

"I see you on the telly," he announced with the heightened tones of a proprietor eager to inform the rest of his customers that celebrities dine at his restaurant, "And Mama too," he added, smiling radiantly at Mama Rosa, "And Grandmama. Bella! Bella! Bella!"

"Olivia, actually," Nana replied, with a smile I feared might be a little patronising when we hadn't yet eaten. "Bella was my cousin."

But Mario just laughed as if Nana was being funny.Then Mario spoke words I shall never forget, "I buy your book, Arriet - you sign it for me?" And before I had time to ask about the Pasta of the Day, my Infinite Wisdom was on the table in front of me, lying hopefully between crostini and a bowl of black olives. So I took his pen and wrote, 'To Mario - ciao, Harriet', just to let him know I was international. He would like that.

So long, Mr Blair,
I'd like to say I care
But care is not a word
From you I've ever heard.

So let's just say 'farewell'
And hope that time will tell
Whether you were great or small -
It's a question for us all.

Only fools and horses...

Better to be a racehorse than a lady on Ladies' Day at Royal Ascot. At least the horse's shiny perspiring coat is well-earned, and it doesn't need a daft overpowering hat to draw attention to itself.

"There's so much I could say to you but the words don't seem to come. Like drumsticks that can't find a drum, the words don't seem to come."

I half expected Jean Claude to telephone me after my London Live appearance. But the other half of me that didn't expect it was right. My mother says you should never trust a man with two first names - there's usually one for each face.
I pointed out that John Stuart Mill must surely be an exception, but my mother replied that she would not be easily fooled by anyone so keen to search for the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people.

I just don't get it - pregnant women who think it important to reveal their extended womb to the rest of the world as if we all want to see what they've been up to in their private lives. What next? Showing us their swollen ankles and exposing their haemorrhoids? For goodness' sake, women, have you never heard of subtle understatement? Cover yourselves up in crisp white Egyptian cotton baggy collarless shirts and tell us your news if you must with a faint blush and a coy smile. If nothing else, it's a far more hygienic alternative.

Nana's talking of entering me for Wimbledon next year - she heard Sue Barker saying they were looking out for fourteen-year-olds and my mother encouraged the idea by pointing out that long legs run in our family. The trouble is that it's all based on a misunderstanding.

We were watching Queens Stella Artois tennis final on television, the three of us, and I happened to say "I'd quite like to do that". And before you could say 'Rafael Nadal' my mother had already planned her finals outfit for watching me in the box reserved for family members. I shouldn't really have corrected her and spoilt her dream. I should have let her go on thinking I wanted to become the first British Wimbledon finalist with a good dress sense. But it wouldn't have been true so I had to explain - I had no desire to be a Wimbledon champion; it was shouting "Out!" with a definitive arm gesture that I'd thought I'd quite like to do.

When I saw myself on television for the first time I noticed that I have developed a habit of laughing nervously at the end of some of my sentences, even when I haven't said anything remotely funny. I don't know how long this has been going on, but it will have to stop or I'll never be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman.

"I learnt by the example of my grandmother the importance of a cheerful and optimistic disposition. And although it is not a disposition which comes as naturally to me as it did to Nana, yet I like to think that there is something of her influence visible in my character despite my occasional protestations to the contrary."

There could not be a better sales representative than Nana, especially when she is wearing her big black sunglasses which she says make her look like Katherine Hepburn. Then, when she takes them off and the buyers can see the steely determination in her gleaming blue eyes, well none of them stand a chance, frankly. Nana, my Meditation 3 of Section One. Third time lucky, she would say. And she would be right. But I'm the lucky one.

First T.V. interview on Wednesday.

My incredibly talented mother and publicist has organised for me to appear on London Live. We'll all be there- me, my mother and Nana. The team is ready for them. I only hope that London Live are ready for us...

I was about to say that Charlotte Goldman is a bitch, but why offend an innocent animal and a particularly loving and faithful one at that? So I'll stick to my original description of her, the one I gave her even before I knew how hard she was trying to ensnare Jean Claude - a mosquito, a tiny creature, insignificant to look at, noisy in intonation, a nuisance, always looking for someone to feed off, with a rather unpleasant bite which doesn't last long and most important of all, very easily squashed.

'When fourteen-year-old schoolgirl Harriet Rose was asked about her sudden rise to fame since publication of her book The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose, the enigmatic author had only one response - to wiggle her little finger.'

They all used the same shot of me, the local press. A close-up of my face as I wiggled my little finger at their cameras. It wasn't an intentional pose. I think I must have panicked at the sight of all those flashing lights outside my school gates. I had been reading about an ancient Greek philosopher called Cratylus who became so disillusioned with language that he decided to remain silent altogether and merely wiggle his finger. He must have come into my mind when the press began to hurl their questions at me. I uttered not a word to the men of the press. Yet still they judged me. Each one certain of his own interpretation of my silence.

I learnt a valuable lesson that day - sometimes not saying anything is saying something. There's a meditation in there somewhere....

I always prefer reading books that have a happy ending, such as Kant's Critique of Pure Reason or, even better, his Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals - I love that one.

I could read Kant's Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals a thousand times without tiring of it. I recommend it to anyone wanting to apply themselves to philosophical matters such as the importance of morality and why we should not tell lies or make false promises. Honesty, you see, is extremely important to me. So, in order to be completely honest with you, I feel you should know that I once told a lie, a very big lie, about a very important matter. But I want you to know that at the time I felt I had no choice.

The worst part of the lie was that I told it to my father, whom I loved very much indeed. And now that you've learnt of my lie, I shall understand entirely if you no longer wish to read a book about me, although I know that if I were you I would want to know more about the circumstances of the lie before I made any rash or unfair judgements. Which is why I wish to divulge the following:

I was twelve at the time, young enough, perhaps, to be forgiven, but old enough, frankly, to know better. My father, recognising that I could be relied upon to tell the truth in all circumstances, asked me a direct question. I, realising that my father would believe my answer, dared not hesitate before answering for fear that he would read the truth of that hesitation. I gave my answer in a manner that could not fail to persuade him of its truthfulness. Once my father had heard my reply, there were no more questions. In fact, it was the last question my father ever asked me. And I had answered it with a lie.

"Am I dying?" was the question as he lay in his hospital bed.

"No" had been my lie.

"I once believed in love
I thought it was all true
But I was so naive
I once believed in you."

Jean Claude phoned again this morning. Coincidentally I was in the kitchen squeezing a French style citron presse at the time. Coincidences are curious like that, as I'd said in an early Meditation - two seemingly unrelated events with a common theme, the occurrence of which makes you wonder if there's a Plan, a Great Unknown Plan, or GUP for those of an abbreviating nature. That I should have chosen to make myself such a French style drink at the very moment when a French man was pressing my numbers on his telephone keypad surely speaks volumes about GUPs. Indeed, should any more proof be required, I need only tell you that Jean Claude and I were not only brought together by an extraordinary series of events of potentially life-threatening proportions, we also discovered by chance that we share a deep interest in Rene Descartes and his celebrated 'Cogito'.

But alas, there was a further dimension to this morning's set of coincidences - Nana answered the telephone before I got to it. I could hear her voice booming down the receiver before I'd even left the kitchen. "You had your chance, Sacha," she was saying, "and you blew it." Of course Nana had a point. And on balance her intervention in our GUP - Jean Claude's and mine - was probably for the best. I expect he's shrugging his broad shoulders by now as he mutters "C'est la vie," through barely moving lips.

'Clothes are like book covers - the right ones reflect who you are and hint at what you're about, but they can't hide for long what's inside them.'

Take Charlotte Goldman's bra for instance. Quite a little fashion statement to the undiscerning eye. In principle, there's nothing wrong with a depiction of Winnie the Pooh over each nipple area. A strategically placed icon, some might say. A tasteful blend of innocence and haute couture. And yet, look a little closer behind the ursine facade and what do you see? A pair of breasts that would fit better into a couple of corn plasters.

It's all about style, you see. And that only comes from the inside out. It doesn't work the other way round. There's no point in hiding a bad book behind a beautiful cover. Remember that, Charlotte Goldman, the next time I invite you to my mother's health club (if there is a next time) and you spend half an hour preening yourself in front of the changing room's mirror whilst sneering at my white cotton vest tucked into matching pants. But my red high-legged bikini with gold chain straps soon wiped the smirk of your face, as you piled your extensions into your white rubber hat and adjusted the legs of your black polyester swimsuit.

You can't go wrong with red and gold, not when there's something worth looking at inside it. It's the reason my mother chose red and gold for my book cover.

"Let not fame
Go to your head
Like pink champagne"

My very first review in the Evening Standard, with my name and the book title and one of my Meditations all over it. There was even a photograph of me addressing my guests at the London Portrait Academy as they sipped their champagne and orange juice and noted my every word. But I won't let that go to my head. I shall remain the same, introspective, unassuming, modest Harriet Rose I've always been. We chose my dress well, my mother and Nana and I. The journalist was right about my good looks. Even in black and white you could tell I had a certain style, a chicness, something of the author about me.

I hope Jean Claude reads the Evening Standard. He was the only guest I invited to my launch. My mother, the publicist, invited all the rest. I could tell by Jean Claude's expression that he was impressed with my speech. He's a philosopher too. That's why we got on so well from the start. Not that I'll ever speak to him again after the way he let me down that night. My mother, who has a knack of understanding complex affairs of the heart and translating them into simple terms told me what to do: "When he rings," she said, "tell him to sod off". So that's what I'll do - if he rings. But he may not. And I don't care if he doesn't. I only gave him my telephone number because he asked for it.

‘In his infinite wisdom He took you away.
I never shall forget that day.
No fond farewell, no plain goodbye.
Too ill to live, to soon to die.
I want you back,
I won’t let you go,
I need you here,
I miss you so…’

I didn't choose the title of my book myself, it was my mother's and Nana's idea. 'The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose'. It says it all.

I had always called my collection 'The Meditations of Harriet Rose, A Thinking Adolescent', because that's what I am. But in a way, as my mother pointed out, the title was mine, as it came from one of my Meditations which I wrote on the day of my father's funeral. It was my way of letting him know that his death would not deter me from my writing - he would not have wanted that to happen. And just in case he could still see me, I wanted him to know that far from having been deterred, my writing had now become a means of communicating with him, just like the pen he once bought me for my birthday which I use to write my Meditations. Do you think he knows that? Do you think he can read my words? Is he as proud of my title as we are - me, my mother and Nana, those he left behind?

I don't want to make my book sound tragic, because it's not. In fact many of the Meditations will make you laugh. Laugh and cry sometimes at the same page. I liked to make my father laugh like Basil Brush. It's his laugh I remember most.

The Beginning

"Writing requires having something to say. Reading requires a capacity for understanding. Otherwise words are mere markings on a page. Every great writer understands the need for a great reader"

'Who is Harriet Rose?' you may be asking. 'And why have I not heard of her before?'. In answer to your first, I am a philosopher and writer, a creator of mere markings on a page. In answer to your second, I have been waiting for you, readers, to discover me, like a little treasure hidden at the bottom of your garden where you walk every day but which you had been too busy to notice - until now. For every writer needs you, I have known that ever since I began to compose my philosophical reflections some time ago.

Today is my fourteenth birthday, but more importantly it is a catalyst in my life. For today I not only celebrated my fourteen years on earth, I also celebrated becoming a writer, a published writer, the writer of a collection of meditations, like a twenty-first century Marcus Aurelius. For my mother and Nana presented me with a truly unique gift - my own hardback book which they had published and which they have vowed will reach as many readers as possible, with Nana as sales rep, my mother publicist and me, Harriet, esteemed author, quietly reflective in the background. And whilst the three of us are embarking on this new chapter in our fast-moving life together, I thought I would begin this blog to share with you some of my Meditations and experiences of becoming an author.

I hope that begins to answer your question 'Who is Harriet Rose?', and that you, great readers, will never need to ask that question again.