The one where I meet Kevin Bacon...

A friend from the UK is doing a play in LA. Well. I say friend. We only ever nodded at each other in London but… when people come into town it’s nice to see people from home so we meet up. AC’s only got about two more days and, to be fair, it was lovely to see him.

I took him to meet some friends. I wanted to show how well I was settling into LA. Thing was... my actual friends had left the venue. I knew two people there. AC walked in... and knew them all. I felt like a tool. They were all: "How did you know we'd be here."... because of me? I looked like a sad stalker. Sad sad stalker. So... I did what I've been doing now for some time. If there's a lull in the conversation, I do the whole IBS thing. You know. I've been shot. IBS.

Please talk to me. I just moved to LA. And... IBS. Oh. I don't know you and I have to make conversation? I know. IBS. Being shot could just be the making of me.

I’ve got a treat in store. My friend LH is taking me to see the Bacon Brothers at the Hard Rock Café on Universal City Walk. You know what that is? No? It’s Kevin Bacon’s band. That’s what. He plays in a band with his brother. I’m so excited. I mean. Kevin Bacon. Footloose. The Kevin Bacon game. And now I’m going to see him live and meet him after. Whoop.

First up food. LH takes me to Nozawa. Apparently this is the best sushi in LA. The chef is known as the Sushi Nazi. It's an institution. It's also in a strip mall turn off, off Ventura in the Valley. Hardly looks special. But then… then… I get the albacore tuna. Jesus. I’ve never had anything so good. Nothing. No phones are allowed in here. It’s kind of intense. There are only about six things on the menu. Okay. A bit more. But it’s amazing. I love it. Mmmmm. Food noshed, it’s on to Universal Studios.

JM’s joining us there and we head into the Hard Rock… and there he is. Kevin Bacon. I wonder if I can take some pictures without embarrassing LH. She goes to the bathroom so … picture time! Yay! He’s on the bongos. Kevin’s on the bongos! I don’t know why this pleases me but it does. I have included a picture. It's Kevin! Kevin!

We move around and meet his manager, his wife, the family etc., but I’m too engrossed in watching the Baconettes. A bunch of women who are going CRAZY for Kevin. Fantastic. They’re having so much fun! And me? I’m having so much fun watching them….

The show over, we go to meet Kevin. We head up to his dressing room with him, his brother and other people. Hands are shaken. I have no met Kevin Bacon. Shame I’ve not worked with him. This man is a legend. Legend. If only for the game… I’d like to marry a Bacon one day. Noam Bacon. That’s just so wrong.

The one where I nearly lost an eye...

My eye is hurting. It’s hurting really badly. I think I have an infection. Or something. But this isn’t normal. It’s itching really badly and it’s looking quite puffy… I don’t know what to do. I still have health insurance but I’m stumped. I phone a friend of my mother’s. Her husband is a leading optician. He’ll be able to help me. I know I just need some antibiotic drops but… what the fuck? You can’t get them like you can at Boots back home.

This is not good. It’s getting worse. Worse by the minute. I went to the pharmacist here. There was nothing he could do. I’m beginning to panic now. No one will give me the drugs I want. I want Boots. I want the NHS. I want someone to help me. Fucking America. Fucking health system. I never thought I’d really miss the NHS. Actually. That’s a lie. I did. I’ve never had complaints about the NHS in the past. And here, nothing but trouble. From being shot to, well, everything. Their ibuprofen’s a bit stronger. That’s about it. Bah.

So. Yes. My eye. I’m panicking. I’ve got some drops now from this woman’s husband… JM calls. She basically tells me not to be such a dick. Go to an optician. I refuse. It’s too much money. $350. At least. But, she points out, it’s my eyes. What am I playing at here? My eyes. I can’t afford to take a risk. I refuse. I’m not paying.

Then… I talk to my sister in Boston. She suggests asking my aunt to lend me the money. I ask her to do it for me. I’m a pussy. I can’t do it. I don’t want her to know how freaked out I am. AJ says she will but suggests that I call too. She’ll lay down the groundwork. I get the green light. She’ll pay up. Now call her so… I call my aunt. My aunt in Wisconsin. I’ve never asked her for money. But now? I’m so scared about my eye. I’ve talked myself into a frenzy. She’s happy to help so I head off to the Benjamin Eye Institute. By now I’m nearly blind in my left eye.

There are videos on the wall. I think they’re of famous people talking about how good Dr Benjamin is. I can only see with one eye and am bumping into the old people, who appear to be really short. I mean, I’m pretty short, but these people. Tiny. Bump. Bump. And they don’t like getting bumped into. I can tell they’re about to get angry and then they see my eye. I look like a battered housewife. They back away. Sympathy etched on their faces. Shit. I must look awful.

I’m called into see Dr Benjamin. Apparently I have some kind of eye cyst. AND the ducts are all blocked. I need to put on hot compresses regularly to melt the crap that’s built up around the ducts. PLUS… He prescribes some medicine – basically nasty gel to put into my eye – at a cost of $59 and sends me on my way. By god it hurts. I thank him. $350 for 15 minutes. Not great. But I did the right thing. I asked him to see me.

I went to bed feeling really sorry for myself. I think I might have snivelled a bit. I couldn’t really cry because my eye was too puffy to excrete tears.

The next morning…

Oh Jesus. My eye has swelled up to the size of a small Clementine. And oh my god. It hurts. It’s turned purple. I call Dr Benjamin in a panic and he tells me to come round right away… $350 AGAIN! This time… I get my sister to call my mother in London. I’ll claim it back on my travel insurance but… right now. I just don’t have that kind of money. My mother is livid. She’s not heard from me in days, weeks maybe, and now I’m getting in touch because I want some money. Okay. I agree. It’s not great. But … seriously. My eye. My eye.

I turn up there and dr Benjamin and I chat. He runs a magazine – which is published in Russian. He’s from Tashkent. He’s Jewish. I fantasise about being Noam Benjamin for a minute. He seems nice. I could get my eyes lasered. For free. Especially if I’m Noam Benjamin. I can’t see if he has a ring on because I really only have one eye now.

Dr Benjamin flips open my eye. As he does so I reach into my bag and hand him my camera. He looks confused. I tell him I need pictures. For my insurance claim (but really for my mother, just so she can see what pain her little soldier - little soldier, I’m not a child... let’s not forget) and please could they take pictures. Please.

The nurse does so.

As they flip over my eye I see Dr Benjamin wince. This is not good. There’s the cyst. EW…. He needs to drain it. That means slicing it open and letting the blood ooze out. That means sticking a needle into my eye to numb it before they drain it. Be warned. I had a picture taken. It ‘s about to appear below.

So… he slices in and the blood start dripping into my eye and his cotton bud. It didn’t hurt but it was more the trauma of having someone digging in my eye that freaked me out. A quick pat on the head – I’ll never get married to Dr Benjamin if he’s patting my head – and we’re done. I’m a bit emotional. I mean. The man just sliced into my eye.

I have to get more medicine. Pay up again and I leave. I’m driving home. I’m driving home after having had an eye operation… why? Because I’m too damn proud to ask anyone for help.

Normal people. Well. They would have rung up a friend and asked for a lift to the doctor’s. Me? I can cope alone. I’m fine. So. What happens? I’m in the car and I’m crying and crying. Boo hoo. Self pity.

I call Tam. She doesn’t pick up the phone so I leave a pathetic message about how sad I am… more self pity. But maybe justified.

Someone I managed to drive home. I’m lying on the bed. With the dogs. Boo hoo. Booo hoo. I’m weeping blood. I really am. But at least I guess I’m cleaning my eye.

Nico gets home… he wants to know why I didn’t call him to come and get me. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t want to be a bother. Jesus I can be a martyr sometimes. I just had an eye operation and I didn’t want to be a burden. What a loser…

The next day…

The eye’s settled a bit but I’m still in glasses. My eye. It hurts… This isn’t good. But… it’s gone down so much. I look less like I’ve been battered. I can’t believe how quickly it’s beginning to settle. I need to get my head together because I’m doing an article for Angelino magazine. My first one. I’m so excited. Whoop! My first US magazine piece.

It’s with an actress. I went to see her film the other day – she’s in a new Jim Jarmusch film. NP walked out of the screening she hated it that much. Me? I just, well, didn’t really get it. Bit airy fairy for me. NP left before the final ten minutes. That’s when it all happened. The only bit of action. Other than that – what an awful film. I mean. Really. Urgh.

The actress is all ethereal. We’re talking on the phone. She’s in a car and it’s noisy but she says I’ve got a nice voice. I feel special. That was nice of her. She seems nice. Artsy. Into good deeds. Does her bit for charity. It all goes well. Now I’ve got to write it up and hope that my style works for a US audience. Ulp.

Two days later…

My eye is getting even better. I can’t believe how well I’m healing. This is fantastic. My friend RJ is in town and we’re going out with NP, GF and PS. A bunch of Brits. We’re meeting up with my friend AdG, who’s also GF’s landlady. The venue? Some bar in Santa Monica.

I have no idea what’s going on here. We had to pay to go in and … well… It’s a COUGAR PIT. They’re all over RJ. He’s a married man. And… if they’re not Cougars I think they’re prostitutes. There are also a lot of Thai Ladies in here dancing with older men. The music’s nice enough but I have no idea what’s going on here. I’m bemused. We’re the youngest people here and we look out of place. We look normal and everyone here is either a freak, a geek or a pro.

There are some women really jiggling bits of their bodies. Noooooo. They look so old I’m scared that their tits are going to fall off. Or some part of their body. This really isn’t pleasant.

The band come on stage. Now they look normal and I see a few more ‘normal’ people. They’re with the band. We exchange glances across the dance floor – what is this place? RJ and I start pissing ourselves laughing. This is wrong. Wrong. I disappear and go to the bathroom. A He/She is taking her sweet time. By the time I’ve left the bathroom, a cougar is shimmying in front of RJ and GF’s turned down the advances of an older Thai lady. It seems I missed all the action. Or perhaps they were waiting for me to leave before they pounced on the boys?

I have no idea what’s going on here but it’s about 1am and it’s time to leave. So time to leave.

Oooooh. The next day. It’s up at 10am for my first LA premiere. Yep. A premiere in the morning. LH is taking me to Monsters vs Aliens. As it’s a kids’ film it’s in the morning. The venue is in Universal Studios and in we swoosh in LH’s swooshy car.

She has some clients in the film so we get to sit with them all. Oh yeah. Here I am. I’ve arrived. Hi. I’m a nanny. Look at me. Look at me getting my LA validation from a bunch of people who don’t know me but I must be important because I’m at a premiere, not because I’ve done anything of any particular merit whatsoever… I nod at people who feel inclined to nod back because I’m sitting in the VIP section of the cinema. And then… I’m quiet. I’ve had my moment. I slip on my 3-D glasses and settle down to wait for the film. And… It was fun. Next time (next time?) I might even talk to someone…

The one where I go to court... again

COURT. Again. Friday the 13th. Of course. Of course I’m in court on the 13th. This time it’s to get my arraignment. I just have to turn up and plead ‘not guilty’ to turning left by going through a red light (okay, I did it) and then get my actually trial date. They have me on video but I’m going to fight it. I have to pay my bail - $430. This is kind of scary. I don’t like this at all. I know I’m guilty. I mean. It’s on camera. I did it. I went over by a FRACTION of a second but… doesn’t matter. I’ve been caught. As ever. I’m always bloody caught. So here I am again in the Beverly Hills Court House.

They have metal detectors here. Your bag gets searched and, of course, nothing’s ever simple, it seems that my asthma inhaler looks like a weapon so I have to tip my bag out. A flurry of tampons comes out. Great. I mean. Fine. I’m a woman. But do we really need to see tampons? Do we? Really? I’m dying. And I’m late for court now because they keep putting my bag through. I start wheezing. I can do this at will. So they have to give me my inhaler. I imply something about I might die if I don’t get my inhaler. They hand it all back to me and I’m allowed to go up to the court…

I sit there and wait. Do I want to change my plea? No. Not guilty. And I’m dismissed. This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Not guilty. Oh well. My voice shook a little as I said it. But I looked the judge in the eye. Yeah. That’ll show her… Yeah. That’s me. Hard as nails and not guilty.

Off to LH’s to correct her script. I love the script and I’m impressed she got it done so quickly, and now I’m just making sure that the I’s are dotted and the t’s crossed… I’ve got to write my own script but I’m failing badly. I keep meaning to do a ‘backfat’ script about all of the stuff that’s happened to me but I haven’t… I need to give myself a serious kick up the arse.

It’s TN’s 30th tonight… so it’s Sushi at Taro with a bunch of us. A nice evening. Simple. Food. Friends. Picture included.

Dinner at Café Med and the discussion is mainly about a snuggie. I decide I have to have a snuggie. We all have to have snuggies. Or maybe it’s a snuggy. The snuggie? A blanket with arms so you can wear it out. Genius. As are the adverts. People dressed up in the blue snuggie – it looks slightly cultish – and watching football. US style. Or roasting marshmallows. And everyone looks so happy – a blanket with sleeves. Brilliant. JM’s ordering me one online. I can’t wait. I want everyone to get one and then I all want us to go out as a group in our blue snuggies. Everyone will want one. It’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes… people will just follow as long as we pretend that it’s the new thing to wear. A snuggy. I’ll have to find a picture. I don’t believe Americans really wear them. I think the advertisers are lying to us. Either way. It’s genius.

The next night – girls’ night. LH and her mother JH, along with JM and MK. We’re off to the Chateau. Whoop. We’re at our table. I feel like I’m eating for everyone. I feel like I’m eating a lot. Oink.

Someone pulls up at our table. They greet LH. Very warm. Oh. Hang on. It’s Justin Long. LH and Justin talk. It’s all friendly enough. He nods his hellos. We reply. And we all just carry on talking as LH and him catch up. I’m sadly excited. I like Justin Long – I’ve just seen ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’. He heads back to his table, which turns out to be next to us. Some skinny birds join him so I switch off. We leave. JM says something about the skinny birds. Huh? Turns out the skinny birds were Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore and I totally missed it. Doh. I really thought I’d be better at star spotting than that. Rubbish.

The one where I'm at a party in the Valley...

Brit breakfast at Ceconni’s this week. They do it every Tuesday morning. It's a nice idea. My friends EL and CY organise it. Simple in its conception. Get a facebook group: Brits in LA. And organise events. For people who've just moved over it's a great way to meet people. I've been feeling a bit lost at times - obviously - & my social circle is horribly small.

So... we've got a bunch of Brits eating egg and toast for lots of dollars… It was refreshing to hear some familiar accents and chill out with them. I started talking to one girl... I didn't really guess who she was and then she gave me her full name. Shit. I know more about her than she'd care to really know. She's an ex-client of a friend of mine and... well... Oh dear oh dear. Strange how things work out. I kept my mouth shut. Well. You would really but I was bursting. Bursting.

As for me… It's strange being at one of these events. I'm not sure what to tell people what I do. Being a nanny just isn't cool. It's not really part of the Hollywood way... though I think it'll be good. As in. I get paid to play with a child four days a week and I get to write the other three. Apart from the fact that the child 'hates me' (she will love me, oh yes she will), it's such an easy job by comparison to the one I was doing before. However, I'm getting an anxiety complex about just what I'm doing again. I mean. Really. A nanny? What happened? A NANNY? My friends back home are finding this turn of events interesting. A joke even. After all, I've never considered myself a natural with children. It's a learning curve. A fucking steep one.

Elsewhere... I have an anniversary this week. So I’m celebrating. Oh yes. I can’t wait. But first… TN’s turning 30! It’s her fault I’m in LA. I moved out here because she got me the job with Mr X and now she’s having a birthday – a joint one with her housemate. They’re getting a band. The theme is 1930s… and everyone’s making an effort. She lives down in the Valley. I'm still trying to work out why the Valley has such a crappy reputation. Suburban. Tedious. I don't get it. People here have space. People here are happy. People here have big pools. I like the Valley. I didn't when I moved here. I think that's Clueless's fault. That film became my point of reference with LA and now, now that I'm actually living here... It's nothing like that. I say that. I feel clueless half of the time though.

The party

Brilliant. So many people. A proper party and the amount of English accents? A lot. My friend from school (and home) NP is still here and she’s there. It’s just chock a block. So nice to forget about things for a while and just enjoy a party. The booze is flowing. The food is bountiful. And the backdrop? A big pool in TN’s garden in the valley. Ridiculously LA. Especially everyone getting into the hot tub later on.

NM brought a Hello Kitty piñata - it was hoisted to the outdoor BBQ roof. You wouldn't get that in London. Would you?

Okay. This party. This feels glam and fun. Not that London’s not… but this just feels like we’re really in LA right now. A big pool, it's freezing in London and we're all outside watching the BBQ. Good. Watching the pool. Good. Watching people smiling. No one's in a corner being miserable. Everyone seems happy to be here.

Post-party

No gossip. No scandal. Today’s my celebration day but TN’s too hungover to come meet me. I’m in Café Primo with friends: MP, ED, MK, JM, LH, AdG, SS and BM. Dim sum earlier with Nico and Randy before meeting RS and JM and then onto Primo. A really nice evening. A shame that TN couldn’t make it as then that would have been all of my LA friends right now all in one place… which would have been really special. But. Still. I’m so happy to be here. After all the shit I've been going through, this is nice. I'm thinking about my upcoming duo of court dates but... for now. This is okay. I've got some good people around me and JM as my lawyer. It'll be fine.

I’m still a nanny however. I need to do something about that at some stage…

The one where I lead a Jew-fest...

Yep. Those are shoes hanging from a wire. I spotted them in Santa Monica one day and took a picture. I don't know why. It's just one of those things. Someone obviously playing a prank. Strange though. But.. more importantly... look at the colour of the sky. Oh yeah. Blue. LA. You've got to love it.

Things are picking up with the kid. She said she liked me this week. Oh good. Progress. It’s also a Jewish festival this week so I’ve arranged to ‘celebrate it’. DV and SS are taking me to their friends on the first night. DV’s very sweet – she’s telling everyone that I need a job AND a place to live. And a husband. Don’t forget the husband! Still, it’s a nice meal. I tell everyone about being shot. They all feel sorry for me. This one’s going to run and run. I can tell.

The next night we’re at LH’s house with her family and I’m leading the meal… nerve-wracking. I miss my family a little. I’ve not celebrated the festival without at least ONE family member so this is a first. I’m also not a rabbi, so leading is interesting. But… I’m doing it. The abridged version anyway.

I tell the 'jokes' my father would have told. I tell the stories from the bible. You know what? I can do this? I can Jew it up. Brilliant. I had no idea. But. Well. It stands to reason considering where I'm from.

Work’s ticking along nicely… the park deal works out well for me. I just take her there and bosh… she plays. The only deal is… it’s taking time for the other mothers (and fathers) to accept me. I’m not the kid’s mother. Parents don’t talk to nannies. Not de rigeur. The English accent helps. A bit. Apparently it’s a bit classy. Or something.

So… my kid’s playing with another kid and I try and talk to the parent. It’s not going too well. You can but try. So… it’s back to my blackberry instead as I plot my next move to take over the world. Or at least Hollywood.

Step one? Actually write something. Step two? Self pity be gone. The best thing about LA is that you don’t have to be defined by what you do. The trouble is, I don’t really like that. So… there’s a waiter at dinner. But he’s really an actor. He’s not defined by his table waiting… but I think… he’s not an actor? Is he? Is he? But he says he is. He believes he is. So. I can call myself a writer. I’m just having a fallow period. And that’s okay. I can deal with that.

I’m due back in Court this week… JM’s taking me. This time I’ve been caught on camera. Going left through a red light. Guilty as charged. I’m on a video. So… now what? We’ve got a defence. We’ll see…

The one where I went to my first BAFTA LA event...

Job of the morning? Take Norton to the vet. Before going to work with the child – she’s beginning to like me. A bit. Not much though. I took her to the park. She played with other children. I got to sit and play with my blackberry. Result.

Five hours later, I’m off heading to my first BAFTA LA mixer. I’ve been accepted as ‘a newcomer’ to BAFTA LA. So… it’s off to Red Rock to meet the crew. I met my ‘mentor’ PH. He was lovely. Then he went home and I actually fell apart. I couldn’t socialise. I felt worthless. I’ve not written a script in three years. I’ve not written a book in four years. And I’m now a nanny. And I’m old. Everyone else there was all shiny and excited. Actors. Actors. And a few budding directors. And me. The nanny. I fell apart. I missed smoking. I stood on the balcony at Red Rock and burst into tears like a loser. I couldn’t chat.

It wasn't that anyone was unfriendly. It was me. Totally me. Raddled with insecurities. I've got nothing to offer right now. I'm not feeling shiny and fresh. I'm feeling tired and low. Really negative. Who'd want to meet that? I'm trying to fake it to make it. I'm failing. Deep breath...

I went inside and tried. I spoke to some people. Told them all about being shot. Then. That was it. I went back outside and hyperventilated. I have no idea what’s going on here. I’m usually so good at these types of events. I think it’s because I’m a nanny. Maybe. I feel like I’ve nothing to give to this party and watch as the others schmooze all the ‘right people’.

I go over to JV. I know her. And I decide to make my excuses to leave. I burst into tears again. OH THE SHAME. She very sweetly introduces me to some people but I can’t hack it. I run away. This really isn’t like me. Maybe taking a job as a nanny wasn’t such a good idea after all if my self worth is going to be this low. Plus… the kid hates me. What the fuck have I done?

I left the party, drove home and snuggled with the dogs. Eeek. The LA dream wasn’t realised today! Time to take stock of what's going on here and do something about it methinks as this crying creature is not where or what I want to be!

The one where I get a new job...

Okay… So I have a job. It starts tomorrow. I’m a nanny. A nanny. What a joke. I haven’t been a nanny since… well. I was an au pair one summer in Tuscany. I was pretty good at it but then I got Salmonella poisoning and ended up getting into a fight with the kids’ father at 3am as we fought for the loo – he had it too. We all had it. Disaster. Plus side? I lost 13lbs. I wonder if I can get Salmonella again? Bonus.

Anyway. I’m a nanny now. This should be interesting. I was a Sunday School teacher for nearly ten years so I know I can do this… Trouble was, I used to get stoned until 5am in the classroom the night before and then teach the kids five hours later with the sweet sweet smell of ganja floating around the classroom. Mellow kids though.

I went to Café Luxxe to do some writing. After all, that’s what I came to LA to do. I ended up just poncing about though. Something I do most days… Must write a script though - am thinking of writing BACKFAT - a 'fictional' tale of my first few months in LA...

THE NEXT DAY:

So. The kid. I’ve been given a brief. Apparently the previous caretaker spoiled the kid rotten. She’s three, nearly four - the kid that is. When she misbehaved, she was allowed to do whatever she wanted just to stop her crying and playing up. She was bribed with sweets. So… when her parents got her back she’d just flip out. She’s been told I’m from Nanny 911. British accent and all. I’m here to sort her out. Eeeek. I have to be tough. Tough tough tough.

Day one: Screams. Not wanted to leave her mother. Glaring. Anger. This is going well. However, I will continue to be tough. She will love me in the end. Right now. She hates me. She wants xxxxxxx. Her previous caretaker. How do I know this? Because she’s screaming for her. SCREAMING. I can’t bare it. How do parents do this? I’m keeping calm though. Tough love. This is going to be really hard. Her mother’s been great, telling me not to worry if she screams and cries: it’s okay. Just let her. However, she’s now screaming. And to think, I really want children. Oh. What’s this? She hates me again? Oh good. This is going well. I’m so thrilled. I have a child who hates me. Someone remind me why I left London again?

Still. Day off tomorrow and I’m off to Disneyland! No one’s sad in Disneyland! It’s “the happiest place in the world”. That’s what I’ve been told anyway.

The next day...

It’s JH’s birthday and we’re off to the wonderful world of Disney. I can’t wait. An early start and we’re meeting at MJB’s house. Splitting up into two cars and heading to Anaheim. The Donald Duck carpark awaits…

I’m asleep for the drive. Yay for big back seats. And awake for Disney… Everyone else had a free pass. They’d used their Disney contacts. Everyone but me. Damn! Doh! I could have too! My new boss works for ABC. God I’m thick.

Someone in the queue offers to sell me one of their tickets for $30 (It’s $59 or so to get in). Quick as a flash, Disney security are on to us. No touting or we’ll get banned from the wonderful world of Disney. Ooops. MJB and JV give me $20 dollars each to split the cost. Phew. I’m in.

Or so we thought. There we were walking up Main Street and… we’ve been stopped by Disney security again. What’s this? MJB’s been pulled aside. Apparently they’ve had a number of complaints about his T-Shirt (we’ve been in the park ten minutes by this stage). He’s told to remove it. The offence? It says: “I fucked the girl in Hanson”. Apparently it’s the “fucked” that’s the problem. Not great. Not great at all. We thought it was funny but MJB thought he’d be for it so he brought a spare. So… after a false start. We’re off in Disney. All the rides. All of them. And no one’s fighting. We’re all getting on despite the long lines for the rides. Well. Apparently it’s usually longer – it was about 45 mins or so but can be HOURS. Note to self… next time do the fast pass route. Much better.- be organised about it. And bring your own food.

Apparently I caused a scandal at one of the food outlets. I wanted to ‘sample’ an onion ring. I didn’t want a whole portion. Just a sample. I said I was from the Uk (true) and wanted to try one (true) but they were having none of it. Apparently, no one’s ever asked that before. Losers. Why not? I’ve survived for weeks on end with no money going on samples. Just go to posh places and look presentable. Free food. Whoop. Not at Disney. Not at the happiest place in the world. A long day was topped off with fireworks. Maybe I should bring the kid here…. Either way. Good research for watching adults interacting with children. Result? Most people are crap. The answer seems to be cram child with sugar and then wonder why they freak out. Doh.

Fell asleep again on the way home.

The one after I walked away...

9am. Moorpark. 10am. Someone is offering me a job. 20 hours a week. For just $50 less than I was making with Mr X after tax AND it’s set hours. AND I’m not working for Mr X. I suggest to my potential new employer that we should talk more about it as I’ve got a press junket to race to but I say I’ll call her later. A job. Good. We’ll talk over the weekend.

I’ve got a press junket as well at the moment. I'm trying hard to concentrate. I'm all in the Mr X ex zone. Double whammy AND I'm still the acting west coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. And... I'm free. I'm free. I've not felt this happy in a long time. God I'm lucky. And I've got NG's dogs. I love these dogs. They're the best.

10.30am. I’m at the Kings Road café for brunch with NP, PS and GF. I’m there first and bump into my friend AD, who’s writing there. Nice to see her. The food’s good. I can enjoy it and I’m excited about having left Mr X. I’m free of Mr X. Yay. Bye bye Mr X. We all celebrate. I might actually have a life now.

I spend the day running around. And, later on, meet up with NP and PS again. They're friends from London and It’s good to have them around as they’re out every night so I always know there’s something I can do, even if I’m in a weird headspace at the moment.

I might have quit my job but I’m still nervous. Still terrified. I’ve got the Telegraph gig at the moment and that’s taking up a lot of my time but it’s still hard. Ho hum. And breathe. And breathe. It’ll be okay in the end. I hope.

I’m still dealing with Mr X stuff. Despite him telling me I had the week off. I have the blackberry you see (I’ll be getting rid of it on Friday) and so I’m getting all kinds of requests. He said I’d stopped working for him immediately but… it seems not. There's a lot of stuff to do and clear up before I walk away. I think I might miss the drama though. Just a little bit. The cache of ‘working on a film’.

The next day

I'm at a press junket. This one's a fun one. Lots of TV shows. I love TV. I'm a TV expert.

10am. The show Cupid. It’s an interview with Bobby Cannavale. I remember him as the gay one with Will on Will and Grace. I love this. It’s back to basic Catullus. Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior. Ah Latin. I miss Latin. Anyway, I know that I am privileged to meet/interview these people but… I’m free of Mr X. That’s all I’m thinking. Oh. Hang on. The blackberry just went off. Fuck. Fuck. Ignore. I can ignore. I do.

10.30am. It’s Samantha Who? Christina Applegate’s up. Meanwhile... The other journalists? They’re all friends from the circuit, some of whom I know... But... there are some I just don't know – one of them basically asked who the hell I was and what experience did I have? Huh? I’ve been doing this for years. Years! Ha.

We cross the road – we’ve left the Renassiance Hotel on Highland and are heading to the Jimmy Kimmel studio. It’s cold in there. That’s some aircon.

Jimmy comes out. He’s fun. Someone stands up, they’re trying to get his attention when they ask a question. Chest puffed out, hair being twirled… He's a professional. He skirts around the questions with wit and panache. We’re done by noon and troop back to the hotel for lunch.

By 2pm I’m out of there. I’ve got Telegraph stories to write.

The next day after that...

Bye bye Mr X. Bye bye. This is really it. 11am and I’m at the film studio. Though. Hang on. What’s this. The fucking arseholes who broke into my car stole my studio parking pass! Fuckers! Fuckers! I can’t believe it!

I head to Studio anyway. Gutted. Of course. I loved that car park pass. Seeing my name on an official Hollywood studio pass made me so happy. It's silly the things that made me happy but that was one of them. I see Ms J and we sort things out. It's all about what happens to Mr X now. I actually feel bad. I think I might miss him. No. Really. The handover is nearly complete now. When I leave I feel free. Freeer than I have done in so long. Because I know that that is it. I no longer have the blackberry. That's it. Whoever has the blackberry has the responsibility and now I'm done. I’m terrified. Of course. But I don’t want to deal with this high level of stress. It’s not for me. Not anymore. Not today. I would be so miserable.

I’m due to meet NP at 1pm at Fred Segal but I’ve just had a call from the casting office. Could I go in and man the phones. Could I ever.

DT still hasn’t rung. I do hope I do have a job!

I’m all over the shop with NP and her friend. I can’t focus. I’m thinking about work. I’m worried. I have no time. Tick tok. Time is so running out. Running out on me. I can’t deal with it. I’m just exhausted. I can’t meet new people. I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I’m so all over the place. No one really gets just what’s going on in my head. It’s not a pretty place right now. It’s like there are spiders crawling inside my brain. I’m listening to the angry voices – they’re telling me I’m an idiot. That I should have stayed with my job. That I should have gone to Pittsburgh. That I’m a loser for not going to Pittsburgh.

NP and friend are talking to me, I’m talking at them. I’m so in self I just can’t hear anything and I have only just stopped myself from crying. I’m at the edge. People keep going how is LA? IS it great? Well… I don’t know.

I’ve been shot, been living out of a suitcase for four months, got in a five car pile up, decided to have a crush on the world’s most unavailable man and feel crushed, my flat back home’s been flooded (did I mention that yet? Yes, my Earls Court home is under water), I’ve gained 30 pounds in weight, I’ve walked off my job, I’m tired all the time, my mother’s upset with me because I never stay in touch, I’m trying to keep it together, I feel like a failure, I don’t know what I’m doing with my life…

So. What do I answer? I just want to cry today. I really do.

On the plus side. Today. I’ve met some incredible women. Incredible people. People have shown me such kindness and love. I have a roof over my head. I have friends. I have a car. I have food (too much obviously). And the sun’s shining. That makes up for so much.

I just have trouble when people want to know how my life’s going. They’ve just arrived. So full of hope and enthusiasm and I feel slightly jaded. Or more than slightly jaded. Spent. I need my old enthusiasm back. I was so happy when I arrived… But… that’s achievable. I can feel good. I have the choice.

Anyway. So poor NP's friend. And NP. They’re getting ‘shit noam’. However, NP's friend used to be an assistant so gets it. I relax. Good. She gets it. I don’t have to be anything other than me right now. Thank fuck.

I race off to the casting office and do the phone work as the fitties start arriving for their auditions. All I’m doing is answering the phone. Easy. Scary. As I don’t want to fuck up. But easy.

And… that night. It was off to the Dresden with PS, GF, NP and NO's friend. They’re all heading to the desert but I’ve got the press junket at the weekend. I need to be here for that. The Dresden was nice. I think I relaxed a bit. Only a bit mind.

I had the salmon. I won’t do that again. It was too much for me. Too much food. I’m eating like a piggy.

I wanted to go out afterwards. It seemed too early but it was off to bed for me. Probably best. I only seem to get into trouble these days.

The one where it's finally over...

I’m in the car, ready to go on my way and… I realise. Hang on. My GPS has been taken. I suddenly remember when I got into the car that my perfume was on the seat, which was weird. And… hang on. My UK cell phone which I left in the car has also been taken. What? I’ve been broken into. I can’t believe it. What is up with my luck? I’m so not having it easy in this city. Seriously.

Yesterday I smashed up my computer. I haven't even started on the fact that my car was surrounded by Coyotes the other day. Yep. Coyotes. They were growling at Max (who was in the car coming back from the vet). I've been shot. I also failed to mention I was in a car accident as well. A five car pile up. That was completely terrifying. Oy. I've had two court appearances due to two traffic offences. Okay, so I got off one and I'm due in court for the other to get an arraignment. Great. And now... my car's been broken into.

I cancel my phone. I realise that all my numbers have gone. I’m glad Mr X’s in New Mexico on a location scout. Now I can deal with my stuff. . Hooray. But now I have to deal with my shit. MY SHIT. Aaaargh. All this stuff. Why can’t things be easy? I just don’t know. I also have to fix my computer.

I put out a plea on facebook for a new blackberry and a new computer. Someone’s got a blackberry I can buy. Perfect. $65 and I’ll pick it up at lunch time. Then… a computer place so I head there. I need a new computer. I stop at a radio shack to get a GPS. They’ve run out. I get back to the car and I’ve got a ticket. A bloody ticket. I can’t stand it. When will things go right?

I get to the computer place and they have them at a reasonable cost but I have no money. Instead I get a new lead and a new battery. That appears to work. I can’t believe I got a ticket though.

I race over to see Jonathan and he clones my blackberry. HA! Now I have Johnny Depp’s email. I know. It’s sad. Very sad. But I want that email. I'm ready to leave gavin. I

I still can’t believe that my car’s been broken into. Jesus.

I find out that there’s a GPS for sale in Westwood at RadioShack so I head over there. The parking’s a nightmare. Nightmare. I get there. I’m so close to tears but I get the GPS. It’s only money. Only money.

I ring MW. And he calls me back. He makes me feel better and it’s all good. I like having people like that who cheer me up. Make me feel better. Who laugh at me. With me. It’s all good.

I’m all over the shop. I can’t wait for bed. I look in the boot. The thieves took my hair straighteners. They were brand new. And... some Serge Lutyens perfume (brand new, $120 - they have no idea what they've taken!) and... poker chips. They really went to town... they popped my damn boot. I'm livid.

Bed awaits. I’m going walking with ED in the morning. That’ll clear my head and tomorrow I face Mr X and tell him I’m leaving him. Bye bye Mr X. Bye bye.

The next day...

8.30am. ED’s outside the door with her two dogs. She’s dragging me up Runyon. She’s lithe, fit and beautiful with two big dogs. This should be interesting.

We get to Runyon, I can’t help but notice people deliberately steering their dogs in our direction. She was skipping along while I, on the other hand, was sweating. Sweating like a dawg. But, the dogs themselves seemed fine. Nothing wrong with them. We went down the hill and then ED knew this ‘shortcut’. It involved a sheer rock face and we ended up pushing the dogs over the rock. I had to scramble. Not dignified. ED gleamed as she skipped up the hill while I felt distinctly sweaty. Ew.

We make it home and now… now I’m nervous. Not long before I set out and see Mr X. We’re meeting at 1pm. At the house. A fifty mile trip there to tell him I don’t want to be with him anymore. It’s been FOUR months. That’s it. Seems longer. I think I'm going to be sick.

I take the slightly longer route to Mr X’s. Las Virgines. Love that road. I feel slightly sick.

I arrive at Mr X’s – he’s on the phone. I decide to retry calling Spike TV. I go outside as he’s on the phone and sit in the sun. Mr X calls me in.

“What’s going on?”

Er. Nothing.

He sits down, we have some general chitchat and then…

“Noam… do you want to go to Pittsburgh?”

me: “No. Pittsburgh’s not my dream.”

Mr X: “Good.”

So. That’s that. It’s over. We talk. He decides to tell me that I’m not a good assistant. I’m too over qualified. Everyone has been telling him that, while I’m nice, I don’t want to be an assistant. They ‘could all tell’. Apparently it was obvious to everyone. The thing is I really wanted this to work out. I like him. I really do. As a person. His talent is immense. His vision is incredible. I believe in him. I do. But I've really struggled just getting straight off a plane and into this world. I feel I've failed and I have nothing left to give. I know, deep down, I really didn't try this last month. I did, let's say 100% but this job needs %120. That extra mile.

The problem is that when I arrived in LA, I knew no one so was happy to turn my life and my will over to the power of Mr X. But, four months in, I've begun to get my own social life and am on a different path. One that doesn't want to go to Pittsburgh.

We decide that it’s over. I’m off. I don’t have to do this anymore. He says that I can have til the end of the week but I’m not working for him anymore. In fact, he wants me out of the house straight away. Just out of his sight. He's disappointed in me. I can see that. And I'm really sad now. Maybe I should have stayed. Maybe I should have worked this out and seen it through.

So… by 1.20pm I’m released from duty. Free. Naturally he had a few things to say – that I didn’t do things immediately - I really did. I really did. That things weren’t done fast enough. That I should have gone to South Bay that evening the moment he said go pick up his notepad. So… now I see my error while working for Mr X. I can't be a robot with no life, someone who wants to live and breathe the business while being his slave. Not me. No thanks.

He started comparing me to Ms J and that’s when I really felt sick inside – talking about Ms J’s enthusiasm and her drive. Thing is, Ms J’s been doing this ten years, this is her life. It’s not mine. She knows what to expect and where things can go. I just feel too old right now. Useless. Mr X starts telling me about how Ms J maintained her enthusiasm, even at 4.30am. While me? I was tired. I was a no-show.

Is it really meant to be this hard? Really? Truly? Are all assistants meant to be run ragged? Leaving them with no feeling of self worth?

By 1.45 I’m back on the PCH heading home. I’ve never felt such liberation. Maybe after school, perhaps? When it was all over. I felt free then too. And a bit teary. But right now, I’ve never felt so free. I’m just past Zuma and on the phone to MK when I consider exactly what I’ve done. What the fuck have I done? I pull over to look at the sea.

“I’m FREE! FREE!”

So now what? That’s the problem. I have nothing set up. No life. No scripts. No nothing. I’m stuffed. I’m working for the Telegraph though, still, as their interim LA/West Coast correspondent. Still.. I’m a bit scared.

No. More. Mr X.

No more tenderwipes, no more zuma, no more shouting, no more drama, no more failure, no more verizon, no more blackberry, no more texts and emails at 6am or 1am, no more studio, no more yoga, no more spruzzo, no more ex-wife, no more girlfriend, no more BLS, no more diva, no more executives, no more housekeeper, no more pool man, no more gardener, no more broadbeach, no more hows, no more bk, no more Mr H, no more film, no more km, no more me, no more DTV, no more UFC, no more MMA, no more TR, no more PR, no more mexico, no more FG, no more cigars, no more vitamins, no more Malibu vitamin barn, no more drafts, no more shooting schedules, no more ADs, no more line producers, no more parking issues, no 100 round trips, no more pay packets, no more finance departments, no more VV, no more paramount, no more BMW, no more oil changes, no more tension, NO MORE MR X!!!!

I’m absolutely terrified.

I drive back a scenic route. I just don’t know what to do with my life now.

I’m in the palisades and stop in at a shop. Can’t buy a thing as I have no money but I look.

I’m due to be a press junket now. So I race across Hollywood and check into the hotel. Valet. Race upstairs.

Wrong hotel. I should be at Hollywood and Highland not La Cienega and Beverly. Doh. It’s the junket and there’s a dinner later that evening. I register and then head to the internet café. I’ve got work to do for the Telegraph. A bunch of writing and I have to get online.

At 6.30 I’m at the mandatory dinner. My head’s not there. Having just quit my job I just can’t handle it. I listen to the speeches, say hello to TB from London and then, bump into my old friend from Mexico, EM and then… I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

My head. My head is fucked.

I meet up with the Brits over in West Hollywood. I’m scared. But PMc introduces me to a few people – perhaps they can help me. I go to dinner and wonder just what’s going on here. I need to write. That’s what I need to do. But I need to eat. I really need money. And I need a home. REALLY need a home.

I go home elated yet deflated. For the first time I’ve been to LA I can turn my blackberry off now.

Shit. The Blackberry. I've got to give it back.

What have I done? What am I doing?

I've not been this scared about my future for a while. I've always had a plan. Always. And now? A leap into the unknown and I'm terrified.

The one where I'm horribly sick...

Another day at the studio. I just have to sit there while Mr X runs around, there's nothing for me to do. There probably is but my heart is not in this right now. I'm so tired. So so tired. And so so confused. This time round it’s his BMW to deal with. The thing is it’s being repaired BUT he has to sign the waver allowing them to let him fix it.

Mr X is not happy. There’s a note pad he needs in his car. He wants it. He wants me to drive to South Bay to pick it up but I pointed out that there’s a man coming from BMW in South Bay and he’ll bring it with him. A proper assistant would drive to South Bay. In heavy traffic. Then drive to Zuma. In rush hour. God I'm shit at this job. I'm beginning to feel sorry for Mr X. He deserves someone who'll drop everything. The signs are there. I can't do this job properly.

At 12.30pm the man’s there. Mr X signs. He hands over the note pad. It’s the wrong one. Mr X goes apoplectic. I mean properly mental. I had fucked up. But how could they get the wrong one? What was I thinking? I should go down there immediately. I’m well pissed off. Well pissed off. I don’t want to drive all the way down there. This is ridiculous. Mr X storms off and goes to meet the DP. South Bay is calling... Shit. This is not a good day.

I call BMW. The notepad had fallen off the backseat in the crash. It was lodged under the front seat. No where in sight. No where. The pages had gone all over the place. Mike from BMW, thankfully, lives in West Hollywood so I don’t have to move to South Bay but Mr X’s not impressed. He wants me to go to South Bay. But… first… I have to get their lunch.

It’s a walk. A long one. But… off I trot. No worries. As I walk down there, I think about my life. What am I doing again? And why? I’m getting shouted at about a notepad. I’m getting covered, on a regular basis, with pumpkin spice venti lattes – I’m clumsy. What can I say? Why am I here? I’m a bag of nerves. I don’t know if I’m going to have a job next week. No one’s said anything. I think I might be trying to fuck up this job on purpose, just so I get let go before I quit. I don't know. But something's not gelling here. I'm not gelling. I'm shaking. Regularly. I'm making more and more mistakes because I'm so nervous. I'm scared - doing a job in fear is not good. I'm falling apart - I've not been like this since I was bullied at my first job on Manchester United Magazine. Fuck.

Mr X’s stressed about the film and I’m getting it in the neck. Literally. My neck is stiff and painful and I want this to end.

Anyway… I pick up the soups and salad and get back to the studio. Waddya know? It’s cold. So I’m just putting the soup in the microwave when Mr X comes flying out of the meeting room. “NOooooooooo. Noam! Noooooo.” Huh? “Don’t nuke the soup? What are you doing? I can’t drink it now.”

Oh shit.

Erm.

I apologise. Too little too late.

“But it was only 20 seconds.”

“Don’t you know how bad that is? You don’t microwave.”

Oh well. Shit. Bollocks. Noam fucks up again. Sigh.

I head upstairs. I’ve been made acting west coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. I’ve got stories to write. This is what I probably should be doing. Rather than being bawled out for microwaves and note pads.

I get the note pad that evening. I’m spent.

It’s the Toscars this evening. Brits in LA. We did a parody of ‘The Reader’. The posted picture is of Naketa, painting one of our props for the film. By the time I get there I’m so tired. I went to MacDonalds before hand to get a filet of fish. That’s how run down I was. My head is pounding. Migraine alert. Again. I just want to be sick.

I’m at Life. On Wilshire. And I really want to be sick. So badly. But there’s no where to go. My friends are arriving. I wish I could muster some energy. Something. The Telegraph get in touch. They want a story but there’s no wireless here. I do it on my blackberry. Ridiculous. I really want to be sick. Physically sick. My migraine is really bad. I've not had one in a while. The last was a few months ago when the girls were visiting. I was sick as a dog then and I'm feeling like being sick again... pounding. Pounding. Pain. Vision. Blurred.

I do the story. I smile with my friends. I’m close to a breakdown. I know it. I’m just on the verge of something and it’s not pretty…. Everyone leaves and I can go. My friends have gone. I’ve been a rubbish friend. I can’t focus. I’m trying hard not to cry. I don’t know what’s wrong anymore. I’m thinking about notepads and stupidity and bmw’s and the maccyd’s is churning inside me.

I get home at 11.45pm. I’m horribly. Unbearably sick and my head is ringing. RINGING. I can’t sleep because I’m in so much agony. I’ve not been this sad for some time…

Bollocks. I've been sick. I'm always ill when my head's pounding. Not good. Not good at all. I really feel like I'm messing my life up.

The one where I get off in court for the first time...

The rest of America had today off. It’s President’s Day after all. IO’s boyfriend AS needed picking up from somewhere and then… it was off to meet Mr X at home in Zuma again. At least the drive is stunning. So stunning. Las Virgines. Can’t beat that. I’m at Mr X’s for hours. Doing stuff. You know. Stuff.

Mr X was meant to be in Mexico today. I was so looking forward to him going. TWO DAYS OFF. Yay! However, with everything looking a bit tits up, he’s here. In LA. I’m on the verge at the moment. On the verge. So miserable and I didn’t come to LA to be miserable. I shouldn't be miserable, I should be happy that I have a job. A job in the INDUSTRY. But I can't see that right now. I just know that I've been having nightmares where I'm attacked by buzzing blackberries. No. Seriously. They've been flying at me - attacking me - buzzing - and I can't stop the noise.

Oh piss. I got a text from Mr X. It’s nearly midnight. He wants me to pick him up at 8.30am tomorrow. BUT… I’m due in court. At 8.30am. I tell him that I’m in court. No response. I call. He’s on a call. There's an ongoing issue with the film... There’s a constant stress and I’m at the front line.

I order a car to pick him up – and email the studio to make sure that that would be okay. I tell Mr X about the car. In an email. He’s still not answering. It's now 1am. I wait. And wait. Nothing. So... I go to sleep.

The following morning (five hours later)

6am. The emails start. Why did I order a car? Why did I pick that time? Would he be paying? Okay a) he asked me to pick him up at 8.30 so I ordered the car at 8.30am. b) I checked with the studio. They’re paying. C) Aaaaaaargh. You’re getting looked after by the studio. But he’s angry. Why aren’t I there?

I explain that a) I’m in court. B) I sorted all this out last night. C) Aaaaaaargh. God I'm wrong for this job. My skin is nowhere near thick enough.

Okay. So…. Today I was in court. And… of course. I was late. Everything was against me. The lights. The traffic. The parking. The security detail at the court house. The lift. The crowds. Then… of course. I got the wrong court again. Sweating I raced in there. And they called out my name. My hand went up. I looked around the court. This time round, there didn’t seem to be the harder looking crims from earlier. Mostly pissed off professionals in business suits who’d turned left on a red light or something like that. And a woman who only speaks Ukranian. She’s got a translator with her. It’s all a bit comical but I can’t believe how loud my heart is. Boom. Boom. Boom.

A few people are getting off. I count the number of people compared to the cops. We’re on the left, the cops are on the right. If my cop’s a no show… I’m off the hook and get my $92 back. Boom. Boom. Boom. Someone’s cop has turned up. He changes his plea to not guilty. So. That’s the game. Okay. At least I saw that. And now me.

No cop! Whooooop! I’m free!

However, the relief doesn’t last long. It’s back to the studio to meet Mr X and get everyone’s lunch orders again.

It’s my age. I just, now, feel too old to do all this. This isn’t my life. But I now know that someone would kill to be there. It’s an entry level job. I’m trying. I really am. They’re talking about Pittsburgh. There’s no money to get me to Pittsburgh. So what am I to do? I should be leaving next week. If I’m going. Mr X and I need to talk. I’ve checked his emails. They’re still talking about an assistant… I can’t bear this any more. It's the uncertainty. Do I have a job? Or don't I? What's going on...? Do I want the job? Or don't I? I'm too scared to just leave.

I’m so clumsy when it comes to lunch orders. The place to pick up the food is about four blocks away and then some. And I have trouble holding things. The bags are heavy, my heart is heavier and, as ever, the iced tea is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’m on the verge of tears. I know it’s only getting food but to have this as my life. I want to romantise it and say that this is the best job ever now that I’m in LA. But… It’s not. I’m alone and I’m carrying food and I’m xx years old. This is the job of someone ten years younger and I’m struggling to cope with it all. I know I should be able to deal with it.

Anyway, they’re all in conference and I realise… it’s Tuesday. I want to go meet the Brits on Robertson. but I’m going to have to get Mr X home. That means driving him. And maybe even at 9pm. Right now I’m so filled with resentment that I don’t know where to turn or what to do. This is so the job of an assistant and I'm freaking out. this is not good. I'm a wreck by now. A wreck.

I’m on the phone to car hire companies – I need to get him to a car hire place but he won’t leave. I’m on the phone, I’m on the web. I’m trying so hard. I’m running out of time. Sweat. Sweat. Sweat.

Thank god for JJK. The line producer. He’s got a contact. They’re going to deliver a car to the studio. I could kiss him. I really could. Thankfully, the meeting at Lionsgate is over by 7ish. I’m free. I’m out of there. All I have to do is drive AT home. Yes. I’m also a driver now for his mates. We chat. He tells me not to go to Pittsburgh. That it would be a mistake. He’s so so right. He points out I’d probably have a fit and walk off set. In the middle of the night. I don’t need to do that. I just don’t need to go.

The next day

9am Moorpark. Tired. But no Mr X today. Then. At 1pm. It’s off to the LC. Mis C’s celebrating and I go to join them all for lunch afterwards but… I’ve got an appointment with Theresa at 3pm. Theresa is the psychic I saw in London JUST before I got the job out here. As in hours beforehand when I didn’t know what was going on.

Anyway… she’s all full of the joys of spring – yet angry. I have it all on a plate. My life. It’s all waiting for me, as long as I put in the effort. And that’s the hard part. Apparently my commitment cards are there. It’s all here for me. She couldn’t be more delighted. So… there we go. I’m going to be okay. It’s all going to work out for me. However, today I’m really tired. Really tired. I’m always exhausted working for Mr X. But… this I know. I’m not going to go to Pittsburgh. I have no desire to go there.

Anyway, I have a carpark pass for the studio so I’m there now doing some work for the Telegraph. I can be online there and do some work so that’s all good I’m enjoying that. I’m still, at present, the acting West Coast correspondent for the Daily Telegraph and all I’m doing is churning out article after article. Just hoping that they remember to pay me. And soon. I need this money. I’ve had news from the UK. My flat has flooded (pictured above just before I left the UK with my stuff in storage).

A burst water pipe. I just can’t deal with this. It’s like another nail in the coffin of my already poor financial status. I’m just hoping that the insurance will deal with it but…. I just don’t know right now. I’m hoping that it’ll be okay but we’ll see. We’ll see. I have tenants but the rent has been eaten up from day one and that’s so depressing. I’m so frustrated with all this. I’ve not made a cent. I've put up a photo of the flat, just before I moved out. God I'm tired.

fuck

The one where I make my first (of many) court appearances

Ooops. I'm due in court today. So... I get up early. But… of course. Even though it’s on the schedule, even though we talked about it the day before… Mr X’s calling. Demanding. He wants information. But… there’s nothing I can do. I’m due in fucking court. And I don't want to be late.

Anyway. I get to the court. Enter. Everyone looks a bit scary. And they’ve all got big evidence files or something. I’m there. A small red file I’ve done. I brought it myself. I'm in court, this time, for talking on my cell phone. If the cop doesn't show up, I'm off the hook and get my money back. There’s a proper judge. Proper people. And I’m sitting with the crims… because I’m a crim.

This doesn't look right though. This is a proper court. Proper judge. The police are scary in here. So are the people I'm sitting with. I have all my teeth and a full head of hair. I'm one of the few who has both. I'm a bit worried now. Something's not right. I definitely am not feeling this.

Anyway… my name’s not read out. I run out. I’m not listed. Huh? I race down the corridor. Aha. There's the traffic court. Nada. No name. Aren't I due in court? Today? No? Seems not. Seems I got the wrong day. All that for nothing. Doh. Quite how I'm going to get another morning free... I don't know. I'll be back in court in four days. Oh good.

I head over to the studio. And sit. Sit in another meeting. I know. I know. I should be grateful. I’m getting to be part of the movie making process. But… I’m not. The other girl sitting there. Keen as mustard. I'm falling apart. I'm tired all the time. My motivation is slipping away. This is not good. I'm trying really hard to be grateful. Really hard. But I'm dribbling with tiredness. Ulp.

So... Me? I’m off to the get the lunches. As ever… I don’t know what it is about Mr X’s fucking lattes. Spiced Pumpkin Latte. Venti. I end up spilling it all over myself. I’m always covered in the sickly orange goo. And it smells. It’s all over my car. It’s all over my clothes. I’m always covered in the shit.

And… then there’s the lunch runs. Getting food for seven people. And then someone, usually Mr X's brother, always insists on getting an iced tea or something. Does have any idea how difficult it is to balance seven items of food, soup and then… a tea? No. And that’s why Hollywood assistants are made of stern stuff. But me? I’m not made of stern stuff. I’m really suffering. I’m not sure what I’m doing any more.

FOLLOWING DAY....
I’m meeting the girls at Juniors for brunch. Turns out LH knows Mr X. Ish. Everyone knows everyone in this city. Small world. Anyway. The blackberry goes. It’s 12pm now. Mr X wants a table at the Buffalo Club this evening for four people. It’s a national holiday. I phone. You need a credit card deposit and it’s a set menu. AND…. It’s full to capacity. I push them and they say they can squeeze them in. Hooray!

I let Mr X know. He’s not interested. He wants Nobu now. Four people. National holiday. It’s all booked. I let Mr X know. Call back. Tell them it’s Mr X. I did. We’re still on the wait list. The Matre’D’s going to call me back. I wait. I’m not there at the brunch. I'm not present. I’m a mess. I just want him to get his table.

We leave Juniors.

I phone Nobu again. And again. Can they please fit him in? Later that day – I hear back. Mr X has his table. I let him know. He now wants a table outside at the back of the patio. They’re fully booked. There’s a party of 12 there. But they’ll put him at the patio. Brilliant. Hurrah! He goes there a lot so they know him...

Half an hour before the booking’s going to met. Mr X. He can’t make it. They’re going to be late. The table needs to go to 8pm. By this stage I’m at Tamara’s. It’s JS’s party tonight, but I’m dealing with it all. Nobu were lovely. Really lovely. I've not eaten there yet but they were great. I'm so happy they helped me.

I’ve been checking the emails recently. Mr X’s still talking about me going to Pittsburgh. Next week. I mean? What? Can’t he tell me first? He’s not made a decision but I’m fairly sure about mine – I don’t want to move to Pittsburgh. I really don’t. I want to stay. But we need to talk. Maybe I can stay. Maybe he’ll just go. I have no idea what’s going on with my life any more.

I’m off to JS’s. It’s in a dive bar, the place with the racist statue. A strange bunch. An Australian actress turns up but I didn’t talk to her. She wasn’t overly friendly and I couldn’t be bothered. I hate it. Still. At least I forgot about all the stuff I did today. I drove Tam home and got back around 4am. Shattered.

The one where I lose it...

Awful day. Awful. I overslept in the morning . That was probably my first mistake. I was due to meet MK but she’s not free until the afternoon. No matter, I’ll got to Luxxe and get MW to come join me. Bah. He’s busy. So. I’m on my own. I do some writing and then I’m at the studio by 2pm. J’s got her own office there now, so she's settled in. She knows what she's doing. She's secure and loving every moment of this gig. I honestly wish I felt the same. I don't know why I don't. I think it's just all a bit new for me right now. Still, I can deal with that. I’m trying to chill out. And calm. And calm. It’s all go.

Mr X’s meeting the AD’s, finally, after the last time when I ended up meeting them all - not ideal. So..... They're coming back in for their interviews but I’ve still got stuff going on for Mr X. Today’s task – downloading all the pictures from his blackberry and his phone onto his laptop. Not that easy. His Bluetooth isn’t working properly on his computer from his blackberry so I have to Bluetooth everything to my computer. And then the phone. I have to send each picture as a text message to my blackberry. THEN I have to email the pictures from my blackberry to my email account on my computer. THEN I have to download them onto a memory stick. Then put them on his computer. This takes about two hours. By now I’m hungry. I’ve gone to get lunch and now it’s still ongoing. It’s now 5pm. I’m not sure what to do next. I’m asked to do some meeting set ups. And then I’m not. And then I am.

Mr X's friend has arrived at the studio (he'll also be in the film) as he's going out for dinner tonight at JC's house. JC is a hotshot LA film man. His scripts are becoming the thing of legend. However, Mr X is far from ready. I’m busy googling liquor stores as Mr X wants cigars, wine and whiskey. By now I’ve had enough. But, I’m busy making sure that Mr X makes his marketing meeting and then he has to make his script meeting. The marketing meeting goes on, because a ten minute music meeting beforehand wasn’t ’10 minutes’ but 25 minutes. Everything’s going on. By 7pm he’s in the script meeting. I ask him if I can go. He says yes. I leave. I’m going to go out to dinner with PMc, SS and the other Brits.

I pull into the carpark off San Vincente near Melrose and I get an email: “In the future, I can’t have you leave until I’m done. Shit comes up every minute. Your day ends when mine does…”

My response: “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to go. I am happy to come back. Would you like me to? I can pick up the booze…”

His response: “I didn’t WANT you to go. You asked if you can leave.” I didn’t respond to that. We would got into he said, she said etc., In Hollywood you just do what you can. You don't argue. I should have stayed. That's how it works. A better assistant would have stayed. Just I'm starting to get a life out here and am trying to enjoy it. Mistake one. When you're an assistant you have no life. I keep forgetting. It really is the way things are here and I have entitlement issues. I just think I can do my own thing. I keep forgetting you need to pay your dues in this town and I have nothing in the bank.

So… I pulled into a liquor store on La Cienega and bought the whiskey and the wine before going to a Cuban cigar store on Sunset near Doheny. They're trying to get me to smoke the cigars with them - to try them out. I'm inside a humidor. Fuck. I haven't got a clue. I call Mr X. He doesn't have a clue. He tells me to ring his friends. I do. They don't have a clue. So... I'm in this cigar shop and these men know I don't have a clue. I buy these Panama made cigars. Apparently they use Cuban tobacco because Cuban-rolled cigars are illegal. The men in the shop look cracked off their nuts. They're smoking the cigars and trying to get me to join them. One of them has no teeth. Nice. He's insistent that I suck on his cigar. Oh please. PLEASE! Is this now my life? A toothless cigar addict coming on to me in a shop on Sunset. Brilliant. I'm so tired. So so tired. But... I get the cigars. As I get into my car, it's surrounded by police. Not for me. But just because I'm unlucky. I sit there. Cigars in one hand, whiskey bottle on the seat... Finally they move on and I can head back to the Studio.

By now, it’s 8.30. I’m driving back in tears. There are certain times in the month when I just lose it and ... well. It's that time again. I’ve had enough. I really have. All I know is that I wanted to be at a meeting and I’m tired. I've got stomach cramps. I’m in a lot of pain. I’m tired. I manage to get through to JM. She talks me off the proverbial ledge but I’m crying in the car. I can’t really stop. I’m just not having a good day. It’s been so long. With his emails at 6am this morning and then his snippy email about me leaving the Studio – what am I to do?

I get back to the studio… and I’m back in the meeting room. I’m not contributing but everyone else has their ‘bitch’ there. I bring in the beer. By 10pm, they’re hungry so I’m dispatched to get the pizzas. On my return… I finally get to go to the bathroom. I get there and… Ms J comes after me. Mr X’s looking for me. I can’t take it. Ms J really wants to be here, JJK’s assistant is making notes and me? I'm acting out a bit. It's all over my face. I know it. The sulky, resentful face. I’m just writing, doodling, crying and feeling sulky. I don't know what I should do in this meeting so I do nothing. I just sit there. Quietly. Trying to stay awake. I'm tired. I'm always tired. I'm always dreaming of blackberries. I wish I was better at this.

I can't believe I'm not enjoying this. This was my dream. My dream. In a studio. Working on a film. But they're ripping apart every scene, it sort of ruins the magic. Every single scene is being looked at and who’s needed in which scenes. I’m trying hard not to be resentful. But I am. This is Hollywood. Again, I have to remember. You lose your life when you become an assistant and I wasn't prepared for this. Ooops. If I were to do this all over it would be different. But. Right now. All I can think is that I'm tired. Horribly tired.

I’m so frustrated. I just want to go out and get loaded. Or something. I just don’t want to think. I feel sick now as well. I just had three slices of pizza. I never eat pizza. Mr X's is sitting next to me. He can’t stop yawning. I can’t stop sniveling. Roof rings. It’s about 11pm. I’m racing out of the room. He’s just finished at Burbank and it’s good to talk to him. He always, but always, turns up when I need him. His commonsense just makes me feel better. At half twelve, they’re still at it. I’m still sitting there. I just can’t stand it. Mr X’s going strong. He's excited. Pure energy is driving him. Surely? I mean, this guy was up at 6am. I know because I got the emails... His energy is kind of impressive - I think it comes from a place of raw passion. I don't know. Whatever it is, it's sort of amazing that he can fire himself up.

Mr X’s brother yawning. And Ms J and I are emailing each other. I just want to crawl under the table and sleep. I wonder if I should join in. Right now, I have no idea what’s going on still and that’s hard to deal with. I don’t think I want to go to Pittsburgh now. Four months of getting tea. Four months of fucking up no doubt. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I need to write. I need to sleep. I know I’m not going to get out of this room by 1am. Which means home at 2am. Which means exhaustion. Utter exhaustion. I’ve had it. HAD IT! I shouldn’t have had the pizza. That was me reacting to the situation. Eating shit. That’s my fuck it these days. I can’t drink. I can’t smoke. I can’t do drugs… I'm just stuck in this board room. So..... I’ll have some fucking pizza motherfucka. I'm feeling sick.

I get an email from someone in the room: “Why the fuck are you here.” I explain: “I’m Mr X’s bitch. Everyone else has their bitch here…. My day ends when Mr X’s day ends.” I’m so lucky. on the one hand. I really am. I have a job. I'm sitting in a studio. This is the dream. I want to be in gratitude. But. Right now. I’m just angry. This is all about learning. I guess.

Now… I’m freezing. The air con is on full blast so I scope out the office and find some hooded tops on someone's desk. They're freebies connected with Mr X's film so I don't feel too bad about stealing one. I'll tell them in the morning - or bring it back. I'm so cold right now. I rip into the plastic bags and put one on. Thank fuck it fits. I feel a bit warmer now but I can feel a cold coming on and I’m shivering due to cold and exhaustion. I’m also filled with resentment that I have to be in this room. Ms J’s so pumped. She's loving this. Her excitement and enthusiasm, even at 3am, is amazing. Me. I'm going downhill fast. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. Ms J’s all over it. “I know a marine in Pittsburgh”… “I know a line person who can run point ” I don't know anyone. I tried to redeem myself at, at 3.30am, sort of joined in and sounded like I was part of the meeting. I was slightly exhausted though… okay. More than slightly. We got out of the office at 4.02am. I’m in a daze. All over the place but I race… RACE home and then, at 4.15am… I get the call from Ms J.

Mr X’s had a car accident. He’s popped his tyre. He’s at the Beverly Hills Motel – could I drive him home? Noooooooooo. Firstly - he's okay. Which is good. But he needs to get home. He's stranded at the motel and it's now 4.30am. She says she’ll do it. She’s in total uber mode and I can’t cope. Fuck it. Let her go. But. No. This is my job. So... I call him. He tells me he’s on the phone to his ex wife. He’s going there instead. But I have to pick him up tomorrow morning. I suddenly remember we’re due in Burbank at 10am. That means a 130 mile round trip for a site that’s only 15 minutes from Nico’s. I burst into tears again. I’m so tired. Ms J’s all: “I love this… I live for this…” This is why I make films…blah blah blah. And I’m all – oh god. Is this my life? I'm so not being grateful. I'm just thinking - i'm tired. Horribly tired.

Mr X emails. He tell me to go to bed and pick him up in Zuma at 2pm. Technically a lie in but that's never the way. I collapse into bed at 5am. Two hours later my phone goes off. It’s Ms J emailing. It stops. At 7.50am… Ms J again. At 8.15am… Ms J again. By 9am I’m on the phone to the car hire company about Mr X’s car sorting it out. I just want to sleep. Where did my sleep go? Oh yeah. It didn't. I didn't get any cocking sleep. Two hours from 5.15-7.15am. That was it. I wanted to prove I could be a good assistant in a crisis.

Wednesday

So. Yes. Yesterday blurred into today. By 9am I’m on the phone to the car hire company trying to get the car fixed, picked up… something. Ms J has the keys to the car. Her intern will be at the office at 12 and will drop the keys off then. SO annoying. So, I’m on the phone to Budget, after no sleep remember, sorting out a new car and I really wanted to have lunch with MK and JM before the 1pm. No chance. I've got to sort this out.

I crawl out of bed. Nico’s having his own drama with work but he’s in fighting mode. I collapsed onto the sofa. The dogs, god I love the dogs, snuggled in next to me as I had a little cry of self pity. When Nico’s off the phone, he gave me some tough love and reminded me that this is my job. This is Hollywood. This is what people do. And I need to apologise for my behaviour – in that I left early. Make amends. All that kind of thing. Sigh.

I'm driving down Laurel Canyon. There's a man with a sign: No Job. No Food. No Home. But Grateful... or something like that. I burst into tears. Again. I really am emotion today. The reason for the weeping? Because I have so much to be grateful for. I, at least today, have a job. A job in the film industry. People would kill for this. And I'm weeping like a brat. Jeeeesus. The trampy man with the sign gave me a lovely smile. He just seemed so happy, that made me cry again. (Someone later pointed out he was probably on crack or something but I think that's just unkind - maybe he was just happy). There are always men with signs on Laurel at Sunset. I always wonder if they are on rotation because they seem to have days when they're there. I've not seen Mr Gratitude for a while now. I wonder if he's still alive.

I head down to Robertson at 12pm and have a vague chomp on some seitan pieces of chewy nonsense with JM before briefly greeting some friends and then… it’s off in the car to pick up Mr X.

I’m due there at 2pm. As I race down the road I’m calling Budget, I’m sorting out the car, trying to deal with the insurance… the full works.

At 2.01pm I’m there. First things first. Time to make my apology/ammends: “I’m really sorry if you felt that my wanting to leave early yesterday was, somehow, disrespectful. I’ve never been to meetings before so I thought I wasn’t needed… I really wasn’t trying to be rude.” I must have looked pathetic because he raced over and gave me a hug. Which was nice of him. I mean. I've had no sleep so I look like I've been punched around a bit and... So. It’s over. Time to get on with the day. Sometimes he's just brilliant. Just dynamic and brilliant. Like last night when he was talking about his film. Brilliant. And, right now... he's being brilliant. So warm. So kind. So caring.

We get the car and then it’s off to the studio. Ms J’s still being intense but I must not let it rile me. I just need to do my job. And by that, that’s work for Mr X. However, she’s made all these appointments and when I send them to Mr X he goes ape. They’re in the morning. He has YOGA every morning. I didn’t know. I’d have remembered that. Damn. I look like an idiot. I should have checked these. But I'm the one who let Ms J make the meetings. Why? Because I’m a bit of a pussy about all this and it was easier to let her just get on with it. So. They all change. I need to work on my boundaries – she’s walking around the studio now going “I love this”…. “I love this”…. I’m walking around going “Oh god, now what?” Rabbit in headlight scenario.

Still, the problem on the film was sorted today.. So they’re making a movie. I still don’t know if I’m a part of it though. Just get on with the job.

So… Mr X’s in a meeting and wanted to be pulled out. I went over and he said five more minutes. I returned and… Ms J’s outside the room waiting for Mr X's brother. She told me not to go in. When Mr X finally exits he goes “Why didn’t you get me out?” Jesus. I'm never going to win!

More meetings. More meetings. I sit outside keeping an eye on the time. Mr X leaves to meet his daughter at 5.15. Great. I can leave soon. “YOUR day ends when MINE does.” So… after doing some scheduling work… I’m free.

Off to meet MK. We’re going to talk about my script but by the time I get to Swingers I’m just too tired. And so’s she. So, it’s a salad and a chat and then… off home. After watching TV on the sofa… that’s it. I’m off to bed. I can’t take much more. And so much for tomorrow off. I’m due at Mr X’s by 2pm.

There is no word to explain how tired I am right now. Done. Done in. And ready to cry. What a pussy.

The one where I see Billy Dee

No word from Mr X yet. I just know it's going to happen.

I drove down to the Luxxe Café in Santa Monica. I’m not sure where it is but I know it’s on Montana. I park up on Montana and text my friend MW. I met him at a screen writing party, I recognised him from London. I used to see him writing at Century - I gave him a nickname. Grumpy Chops. But... he's in LA now and he's cheery. No more grumpy chops. So. Yes. I'm trying to find Luxe.

Then, I look up! I’m there. It’s raining though. Pouring. So… I stay in the car. It’s too cold. MW tells me he’s in here and I’m not. As the rain breaks I head over to the café. On the plus side… MK (a friend who helps me walk the dogs) has told me she loves my pilot episode and we’re going to meet up and work on it together. Brilliant. I get to the Luxxe Café but I can only stay an hour. I have to race to Zuma. Mr X’s calling…

This time I’m prepared, I order his food and then double check – yep. It’s a tuna sub with caesar salad. Good old Spruzzo in Zuma. I bought one for me too. Why not. I’m hungry. I get there and it’s all systems go. We’re waiting to hear if the issue on the film has been sorted or not. It's a stressful time. For him, more than me. But I get affected by it all. We're in some kind of holding zone waiting to see if it's going to happen or not.

So. I'm at the house. His remote control’s not working. I need to call direct tv. His housekeeper wants a gossip. There’s admin work to do. Everyone wants a slice of Mr X right now. But we’ve got some work to get on with. We go through the meetings, the emails and general life stuff. It’s all a bit hectic. But it’s fine. The DP turns up and I’m dispatched to the supermarket and starbucks… Venti pumpkin spice latte, a latte for the DP, logs for the fire, blueberries, fresh orange juice, cheddar cheese – shredded and organic, and organic eggs.

I drive back to the house. Oh poo. The drinks have spilled all over the seat and floor. My car reeks of coffee. Back to Starbucks. I have to drive more SLOWLY then stuff like this wouldn't happen. It's hard when you have to be places quickly. Things get dropped.

When I get back, the housekeeper takes a look at my purchases. I got the wrong cheese. He likes something else. Jeeeeeesuz. Oh well. It’s cheese. It’s organic. I’m not fucking perfect. She loves to have a little dig. I’m trying not to let it rile me. Once everyone’s fed and watered I’m ready to shoot.

I’m back on the road again. My phone rings. It’s some manager. He’s got a client for the film. He won’t shut up. I get rid of him by asking him to send an email, which I forward on to Tamara and Mr X. Neither of them has a clue why they should bother with this 45-year-old individual. There’s no role for him. I emailed them both back: “Perhaps you could get him in the ring and Xxxxx could beat the crap out of him and when he asks why he got such a crap role you can explain it’s because his manager bugged your assistant.” He’s not getting a part. Especially after the manager phoned after the email. Then phoned JS. Then phoned me. Then got in touch with the casting crew. Noooooo. You're being too pushy. No one likes a pushy manager. The casting crew know what to do, the team know what they're doing and, by now, even I know what I'm doing.

I really wanted to see the sun set at Greystone Park but I’m too late. So… instead. I head to the Beverly Hills Hotel and set up camp waiting for JM. It’s our Monday night new tea ritual before we head up to LH’s. I’m a bit excited. Billy Dee’s in the house. STAR WARS!! BILLY DEE!!!! I say nothing but am very excited now. BILLY DEE! Whooop. Now that’s a Hollywood spot. I know. I’ve seen more famous, more wealthy but.. come on… BILLY DEE! By the time I head home, Nico’s on the phone. Life's a bit stressful on the home front too but we end up watching a car chase on the 101. It lasts two hours. A Bentley… we turn the tv to mute… the choppers are right above us. I think he shot himself in the end. I don’t know. I gave up and went to bed. I’ve got to meet Mr X in the morning back at the studio and then meet MK to work on my pilot. I'm tired but... it could be worse. A lot worse.

The one where I get the hire car

8.30am. I’m up and getting ready to drive to Mr X’s. Sigh. God this is tedious but I’m happy I have a job and I’m praying it’s not raining too hard. My bedroom’s been leaking… So. I shower and it’s off the 50 miles to head to Mr X’s place.

I’ve learned a few skills being an assistant. You have to be able to text, google and drive at the same time. As well as talk on the phone. My hands free means that I’m able to do all that on the freeway. Sometimes I scare myself trying to use both hands so I can do an exclamation mark. No one realises just how dextrous I am. I really am becoming a pro but my ability with the blackberry is beginning to scare me. One day it’s going to end badly. I’m trying to pull over and text but sometimes … well… it’s stupid. Let’s face it. I’m being stupid. It is a skill though. The ability with the blackberry – not the stupidity.

Anyway, I’m booking the car. Mr X’s chosen one. It’s not in the shop yet but it will be by 11am. Great. I stop on the way and get Mr X’s coffee: A venti, spiced pumpkin latte. I know his coffee now. I’m getting there. I know he likes blueberries. I know he has to have planters peanuts. I know he won’t eat store made sushi. I know that he likes tuna salad sub sandwiches and a Caesar salad from spruzzo in Malibu. I know that he likes coconut blended green teas from Urth. Slowly but surely I’m knowing far too much. Sigh. When booking flights, he has to be in the aisle. At the front. Never at the back. When booking hotels he needs a king size bed. And high up. As high as possible. Never get a stretch limo. Always get a saloon car to pick him up. The juice has to be freshly squeezed. Always get his airmiles. Keep a pad in your bag. Write down EVERYTHING. Never miss anything out. Let him finish his sentences. Don’t interrupt. Don’t bother getting crap sweet food. He won’t eat it. Ever. Oh and he only likes writing in blue pens. And they really have to be roller ball blue pens, not felt tip – but blue. He likes blue. I had no idea. But see... I'm learning a lot.

On arrival… both Mr X and his daughter are in pyjamas. No where near ready. I turn into Mary Poppins and start getting bossy. “Come on. Chop chop. Let’s get you changed. We’ve got a car to pick up.” I swoop around the house bossing them into their respective bedrooms to get changed and ready to go out and then… once they’re done… we all climb into my tiny car. Heard when Mr X is a tall man and i havea small car.

As we’re on the PCH… there's a phonecall and it's regarding the film. It's drama. It's fascinating to hear Mr X at work. While Mr X is dealing with this fire, he gets another call on the line, someone's been lying to him. And this isn't good. There are tearful voices at the other end of the phone. Mr X is on flying form but this isn't good at all. The lies are being exposed and it's not good. Mr X is dealing with it. I note that he deals with stress in the real world amazingly well. He's on it. He's calling the shots. No fear just straight down the line straight talking. You'd want him on your side in a fight. I’m just driving but we’ve arrived at Budget. Mr X's daughter, bless her, has asked my permission to lie down on the backseat while we’re in the carpark.

I get Mr X’s driver’s license and credit card and set up the paperwork. He’s not off the phone. I get him to sign the documents. He could be signing anything. He’s still on the phone as I go back and forth, I check the car for any nicks, I get him to sign it all, and he then points out that they’re taking around $xxxx from his card - it’s just a deposit…. However, now it’s all signed off. I tell his daughter to get up and move her into the other car. Mr X gets out, still on the phone and he gets into his car and drives off. Job done. Finally. I hope that’s it. I really do. I wanted a weekend. Mr X drives off, ear still glued to the phone.

I race over to see Nicole and do some work at her house from 1-3. Then… it’s a Brits in LA meeting. We’re doing ‘The Reader’ for the Toscars. The Toscars. A bunch of English people in LA and we’ve split into teams – each one of us has been given a film in consideration for best film at the Oscars and has to do a 10 minute (no more) parody of the Oscar film. Lucky us, we get naked Kate and concentration camp guards. Brilliant. Not. But maybe. We’re full of ideas and before you know it… it’s 5pm.

However, on arriving there, my mind’s all over the place. I’ve been screaming at Fedex as they have still failed to deliver Mr X’s girlfriend's birthday present. I’m freaking out because he wanted it to arrive there by Friday and we paid for it to be an over night. Oh well. What’s a girl to do? I’m screaming at Fedex. I get so ratty by other people’s incompetence. Sigh.

Home. And then I’ve got a bit of time to meet Tamara for dinner…

8.30pm – Spanish kitchen. K from London’s there. A – I’s fiancée from London is also there. And K’s client and Tam’s friend M is at the table. He’s an actor, Welsh and successful. Dinner’s nice. Two other friends of Tam’s join us – two more boys but they’re over with A. At 10pm I get a text from Nico: “on the way back with bird. Can u straighten up the room”. He’s pulled. Oh god. When can I go home? The last thing I want to see is Nico making out. So… despite dinner being over I’m insistent we go on. M’s gone home. He’s tired. But Roof just called – he’s at the Chateau.

Right. We’re off. And off we go. By the time I get there. R’s text arrives. “About to go and there’s no where to sit.” K and I make it in time to sit with him before he goes. BUT he had Ruby with him. That was nice. Ruby who drove me to the hospital when I was shot. So it was good to see her under slightly better circumstances… By the time Tamara and A arrived, Roof had gone but he saw them on the stairs and at least said hello as Tam hadn’t met him yet. So… we killed time there until midnight and I got the all clear from home. He’d taken said bird home and was now going out for the evening. Rampant bugger. I dropped K off and headed off to bed.

The one where I get stuck at CAA...

No Dublin for Mr X after all. Instead, he’s got a marketing meeting at the studio at 10.30am. He wants me to meet him there again to give him his shoes. Yes. His shoes. He had me take them off his hands to get them polished for the Daddy/Daughter dance in Malibu on Saturday.

My head was all over the place... I had an early walk up Runyon this morning (picture posted). I went over to the studio offices. No Mr X. Nothing. Weird. He's not picking up his phone either. Double weird. No reponse to an email either. Triple weird. I hope he's okay. He always answers something.

Meanwhile, his girlfriend is calling. "Where’s her package?" Fuck. Bloody Fedex. Turns out there was a mechanical fault with the plane. The package couldn’t arrive. I scream at them, fedex, that I’m going to lose my job if it doesn’t arrive by Saturday. They say they’ll do that. But now they’re saying it’s the wrong zipcode. I’d missed off a one. Nightmare. I’m in trouble now. And it's Fedex's fault. Not mine. Not mine at all. I want her to get her present. It's her birthday and Fedex have been horribly unhelpful. Aaaargh.

Anyway… I’m at the studio. Having parked on the street – I get in and… the two boys on reception couldn’t be more friendly. I’ve been accepted. Go me.

So. It’s straight into the conference room where JK – the film’s new line producer is waiting for Mr X to interview ADs. I put my brown bag on the table. The bag contains Mr X's shoes. Yes. The shoes. They are still with me. We chat. He’s lovely. I have to say. Really nice.

In walks the first candidate. Initial impression. Nope. But what do I know?

Anyway, Mr X is messaging me. Finally. He's okay. Phew. But... he's at CAA. JK is looking at me - I can see it in the eyes. "What the fuck is going on?". Mr X is meant to be there. With JK. And, right now, I'm in the room with the ADs instead. Aaaargh. This is fucked up.

And then comes the question. “Where’s Mr X? Will be here soon?” Now. What they don’t know is that there's something going on behind the scenes and Mr X is dealing with it. He's at CAA to have a shakedown. But I can't tell JK that. I can't tell anyone that. Hmmm. This is tricky. Instead, I try and keep to the truth:

"I'm terribly sorry. But... Mr X's locked in another meeting that's run on."

Despite this, the potential AD has not left the room. He's still talking. And the second guy's turned up for his interview. I need AD1 out so I can tell JK what's going on. Thankfully, the studio exec on the film turns up to explain the situation to everyone. It’s now 2.15pm and AD1 still isn’t leaving the room. C'mon. Out out out. We've got things to do. AD2 needs to come in. Finally AD1 leaves and we can get the next one in.

Time for damage limitation however and I’m on my blackberry calling AD agents and the other potential candidates - I'm trying to go ‘abort… abort’. Mr X not being here means coming in for an interview would be a waste of time. Thing is, one of them is nearly at the studio – he just drove in from miles away. Ooops. Still, I managed to reach them all – despite the fact that most of them were already waiting in the lobby. The film’s got a SAG waiver so I guess with the fear surrounding films at the moment, knowing that this one’s going to go ahead means that it’s a job and who doesn’t want a job right now?

I go back into the interview room and this… this is where it got interesting for me. JK’s only been on the film for four days – me? Four months. Time has really flown by. So… suddenly I’m part of the interview process. I’m trying hard to just look official. I manage to do a wicked doodle. And then, I get asked the question - “And what does Mr X think of xxxxxx.” I managed to bluff an answer. After all. I’m a professional. Before you know it, I’m sitting in with the candidates. I send J a message - she'd love this. She'd also know what to do. Still. I'm not doing a bad job. People are looking at me when they give their answers – what the fuck? I have no idea what’s going on. Damage limitation. that's all I'm thinking of right now.

My blackberry’s off again. It’s Mr X. He wants me to meet him with the shoes at CAA. Shitter. I look like crap. At least I’m in all black. No one ever looks truly dreadful in all black… but… it’s been raining. And I’ve been caught in it. I’m not looking my best. It has to be said. I decide to see through the interviews with JK. A chance to just blend in and become a part of the process. He’s also the one hiring and firing at the moment. I ask him if he can find out if I’ve got a job – or not. Am I Pittsburgh bound…? Who the fuck knows right now. He appreciated that I might want to know so he said he’d look into it. Right now, all I need to do is my job and do it to the best of my ability… that’s all I can do.

I’m off to CAA. The famous CAA. I’m approaching CAA. Fuck me it’s BIG.

I park up at the shopping centre and arrive at the agency (still with the shoes in a brown paper bag) and ask for Mr X’s agent's office. I have to wait in the lobby. Everyone there looks important. They’re all waiting… And… eventually… down comes R. I finally get to meet Mr X’s agents's asst. Or… xxxxxxxxxasst@caa.com. She’s never had a name. Just that. We go up to the office. It’s a corner office. Everyone’s very busy. Very groomed. I’m ushered in and there’s Mr X.

He’s still on the phone. I give him the shoes. He nods. He’s still on the phone to the studio. He’s been on with them for about three hours now. I’m told to sit. And wait. And I get to meet The agent. But he’s on the phone. Everyone’s very busy. Mr X gets up. “I’m going to xxxx’s office.” And he leaves me there. Alone. I feel like a twat. A twat with a pair of polished black shoes. It’s now that I see the agency system at work.

“Get me xxxxxx [important big Hollywood name] on one.” – agent

“he’s in casting.” – agent assist

“get him” – agent

There’s a pause.

We’re emailing while the agent is talking to his assistant.

“Shit. It’s non-stop isn’t it,” I write to the assistant.

“Yep. I’m sure it’s the same with you,” replies assistant.

I have no idea what to write now. She's busy. So busy. So I stop writing. He looks like he might throw a hissy fit. I think she's joking.

Meawhile the 'banter' in the office is still going:

“Get me xxxx xxxx’s [a-list actor] number,” Agent.

“xxxxxx [big name] on one,” Assistant.

“I’m too busy. Get me xxxxxxx. I’m never going to get through this fucking list tonight,” Agent
.
“xxxxxx [bigger name] on one,” Assistant.

“Where’s Xxxxxx’s [A-list actor] number? Someone’s got it. Ask around. Put it out there….” Agent

And then he picks up the phone.

“Hey,” he says to me as I’m trying to sink into the chair opposite him as I wait for Mr X. Trying to be part of the furniture. I'm just sitting in his office. Trying to blend.

“Yeah…” I says nonchalantly.

“You want some candy?” Agent.

Huh? The man’s offering me candy. I don’t eat sugar. But I don’t want to turn down his candy. I won’t have the candy. But I like candy. I want the candy. This could be a moment to bond. I’ll take the candy. Yes. Maybe this is our moment.

“It’s the best you’ve ever had,” agent.

I slope up to his desk. What is this? What is going on? Are we friends now?

“Go on. Have both. Take it. Take it,” Agent says.

He is the typical agent. You want him in your court. He’s better than Ari Gold in Entourage because he’s real. He’s a proper proper agent. I love it. I hate it. I love it. I’m at the desk noshing on his candy. I can’t stop now. I put it down. He’s telling me to take it. I tell him to stop pushing his candy on me. He needs some. I tell him to take his candy. This is getting weird now. I’m in an office discussing candy and sugar while Mr X is fighting for his film in another room.

A man comes into the room. He introduces himself. I just tell him I’m Noam. He thinks I’m important and then the agent tells him I’m Mr X’s assistant. I don’t know who he is. I email the assistant to try and find out who he is. Anyway, we start discussing Gerry Butler’s shagability. I don’t know if this is appropriate or not as I don’t know who he is. Anyway. We have some fun. I like him. He’s funny. I don’t know if he’s important or not. All I know is that we’ve delayed his appointment with the agent for three hours as Mr X’s been holed up at CAA.

Mr X’s back. He’s had enough – he wants to leave. His agent wants answers. Mr X’s spent though so we leave. As we go some wannabe shark of an agent comes over. He’s all over Mr X. Tedious. I’m still trotting behind. Eventually we leave. I’m out of CAA. Mr X has managed to get someone to look after his car right outside the door. It's pouring. Mr X drives me to my car. He wishes me a nice weekend – he’s off to spend time with his daughter and I’m off to get ready for the Grammy party I’m going to tonight at the Paramount lot.

9pm. I’m dressed. I’m ready. I’m knackered and I’m going to go to a party on my own. Then.. Tamara rings. A friend’s in town and they’re meeting up with A.N. Other UK actor at Firefly for a night out. Oh well. I wish I could go but…

I’m driving in the rain. It’s kinda scary and then I get the call from Mr X. It’s 9.30pm. He’s had an accident on the PCH. A boulder hit his car and it spun. He's okay, thankfully, but the car is not. He wants me to drive to Zuma tomorrow for 10am to take him to his hire car. Oh poo. That means an early night tonight rather than enjoy the Grammy party. I suck at this job. I'm thinking about me. I don't want to drive 50 miles to his place to drive him five miles up the road. Oh well. I have to do this. And hire his car. And... do it with a smile.

I arrive at the Paramount lot. I’m on my own at a party. It’s kind of weird. I’m dressed up. For me. A dress. Make up. Fresh hair. And I’m emailing xxxxx from the studio that invited me. She’s by the cheese. I’m by the cheese. Wrong cheese. There are two cheese tables. I’m at the better one. She’s English and friendly. So we hang out. Before you know it I bump into someone I know. JVDF. A friend of E’s. He’s with someone who worked at Dazed in London. So she knows some of my former Time Out and City friends. Small world… small world. And I don’t look like a loser. See? I know people.

By midnight, however… I’m bored. I don’t know enough people to make this worthwhile really. I’m tired and bored. I got kudos points for being spotted saying hello to Adam (aka DJ AM). I didn’t realise he was DJ AM. I don’t know who that is but I know that he’s Adam. Nice guy. He knows Nico. Of course. Who doesn't?

I leave. It’s 12.15am. And who’s arriving? Nico. He’s greeting everyone. Like a king among minions. I'm done. I’m off. That’s it. And I’ve got to drive to Malibu in the morning.

2am. I’m online. I’m looking at local car hire places in Malibu. I’m compiling a list. A long list. Which I’m emailing to Mr X: “Please look at his before I arrive tomorrow so I can book it while driving over to yours in the morning.”

I've got to get up in six hours. Ew. This is not going to be pretty.