The one where I get shot...

I had arranged to meet Roof's friend Ruby to move in to Roof's place... And then this happened...

All in all. The fact of the matter is... Backfat saved my life.

Yep. There we go.... Back fat saved my life. For a woman who spends most of her life dieting and going to the gym in an attempt to improve in her appearance, this is a statement that rankles. But, my muffin top saved the day when I was shot in the back with a high-powered air rifle from an unknown sniper assailant, or indeed assailants, while minding my business at 2.15pm in a residential neighbourhood in Los Angeles. The thing is, had I been the usual LA stereotype size zero character, I’d probably be dead. Or paralysed. Or without a kidney at least.

To backtrack, 45 days ago I decided to move to Los Angeles. It’s bleak and cold in England. QPR, my football team is out of administration and can do without my support for a few months, and I needed some sunshine. So, I quit my job at a national newspaper, packed my life into storage, dug up a few of my old scripts and came out to LA for a ‘holiday’ to follow the American dream.
Initially, it was all going so well. After three days in the country (I’ve got dual nationality before someone decides to inform immigration), I started working for an up-and-coming Hollywood director as his ‘bitch’. They like to call it ‘personal assistant’ but I’m realistic. I’m someone’s bitch. I set up meetings, call other ‘bitches’ though they insist on calling themselves ‘assistants’ and make sure his pool heater’s working.

On day four, I met his former assistant for the handover where she gave me the blackberry… It was then I feel felt I’d arrived. Skimming through the contacts I spotted Johnny Depp’s email, I could barely contain my excitement – not that I’d ever use it. A good bitch is a reliable non-stalker bitch.

By the end of the week, his latest film had opened and I got all manner of calls from wannabes who wanted a job on his next project, I sniggered at calling cards, demo reels and head shots with the appropriate amount of disdain. It really was going so well and I began to get into the Hollywood lifestyle. My life resembled an episode of Entourage mixed in with dabs of the Devil Wears Prada. My emails home were filled with tales of the mundane (back to the pool heater or the broken dishwasher) and the exciting (meetings at the Paramount lot). And then? I got shot in the back.

Most of us think we know Los Angeles. Thanks to films, we’ve heard of Crenshaw and South Central and the names conjure up gun fights and drug deals. Places to avoid. ‘Crips’ and ‘Bloods’ are not to be taken lightly. And then there’s West Hollywood. We-ho. The slightly chi-chi part of town, which contains a shopping Mecca – The Grove, the cheaper alternative to Rodeo Drive and paradise for so many. It’s a huge destination in Los Angeles, which is a city is all about arrival.

Having left the Grove, I wandered down to a coffee shop on foot. This was my mistake. No one walks here. Everyone, but everyone, drives. And then… I meandered towards the Palazzo, a residential block of flats, a place filled with wealthy divorcees, wannabes and actors who are new in town. So far? So LA.

I was waiting for a woman to let me into my potential new home just outside the security gates when I noticed something fly past my ear. Someone’s throwing rocks at me. I thought. I moved slightly closer to the security guards themselves and sipped at my tea.

It happened again and the second time, I felt something hit me in the back. It was like a sharp rock at been thrown at me. I put my hand on my back and removed it. It was covered in blood. I’d been shot. I looked around. No one. Nothing. Stunned but not feeling any pain, at this stage, I ran towards the security guards shouting out “I’ve been shot…. I’ve been shot.” Their reaction? Total meltdown. “Was I sure I’d been shot” I lifted up my shirt (black of course, which somewhat spoiled any extra drama of actually seeing a bloodstained shirt) and sure enough, there was a bleeding hole in my flesh.

“Call the police,” I screamed at them while they started asking me mundane questions like asking me my age. I swore. I swore with the total freedom and abandonment of a woman who’s just been shot in the back by a sniper. I swore at them to get the police to me right away. And I swore at them to get me a paramedic. And then I burst into tears.

Randomly, a paramedic was making a visit to the Palazzo so he was flagged over to dispense some advice. He confirmed what we all knew. I’d been shot. But he warned me about getting into an ambulance. It would cost me at least $200 to ‘order’ one. And if the paramedics touched me, or helped me into the ambulance, I would be ‘charged’. It was then I realised that I was in America and I missed the NHS. How the hell was I going to pay for this drama?

I flagged down a car, it was the woman with my new house keys. I’d not met her before but, bleeding profusely, I shuffled into her car and begged her to drive me to the hospital’s ER ward apologising as I seeped into her passenger seat.

I arrived at the hospital, sent her away, and registered. They took my blood pressure. Normal. So I was sent to the holding bay. I then realised I was going to be late to meet my boss so I sent him an email: “Not that I want to freak you out but I've just been shot and I have to go to hospital to have the bullet removed. Will call when out of ER. I'm probably in shock right now.” Probably not my finest hour. Apparently he was in a meeting at a studio and told them all ‘My assistant’s been shot…’. I’m sure it can only have helped his kudos.

I walked around, trying to stem the bleeding before, finally, I was taken into the ER ward. I was in utter agony and trying not to freak out because it wouldn’t stop bleeding. By now it was just a trickle – but a trickle too far. Stemming a few tears, I was approached by the hospital money person, who walked softly carrying a big clipboard. Before I knew it, they were demanding a credit card. I kept saying: “I have no money. Nothing.” They were having none of it. They wanted that credit card. I’ve since found out I could have refused as it’s their duty to treat me. Next time I get shot I’ll know what to do. Refuse to pay. Perhaps be a bit outraged rather than the placid ‘oh, okay’ as I weakly handed over my card. I just wanted to see a doctor at that point so felt slightly emotionally blackmailed into payment.

Back inside the ER, it’s nothing like TV’s ER, which is always filled with sultry looking doctors. Instead, it was chaos. They only had one (albeit charming) doctor on duty that afternoon so I lay there, bleeding and freaking out about money. I was finally examined and sent off to x-ray where they spotted a bullet wedged in my back fat. And not only that, it had travelled around three inches into my back fat and gone down into more fatty flesh, which I would like to term ‘lower back’ but others have said ‘arse’. Or being American: “Ass”. I maintain it was my lower back.

At this point, six x-rays later, my costs were spiralling. My friend from home, Tamara, who’d turned up to hold my hand and take the inevitable facebook pictures, told me to stop panicking. It would be fine. We’d find the money. But, after the ER doctor tried (and failed) to take the bullet out under local anaesthetic, it seemed I needed surgery to remove it. The police wanted the pellet for evidence in their attempted murder investigation. Now, surgery costs thousands so I discharged myself, with my seeping wound stitched up and went home to phone my travel insurance company. It was, by now, 7am in the UK. The poor woman at the call centre near Manchester had just started her shift.

“Hi. This is Noam Friedlander. I’m in Los Angeles. I’ve just been shot. I need surgery. I’ve just checked myself out of the ER. They’ve already taken $1,000 off my credit card. Can you cover my costs?”

There was a pause from the call centre as she processed the information. She then proceeded to put me on hold. At least nothing’s changed back home.

I’ve since lost my appetite but am forcing myself to eat. If LA’s taught me anything, it’s that a slight spare tyre is obviously a life-saver. I’m never dieting again.

At present, the police are investigating the crime, they’re calling the incident ‘attempted murder’ and I’m still waiting to hear back from the police station, apparently it’s a busy precinct. It’s been a week and nothing from anyone. No phone calls. Updates. Nothing. The criminal justice system is nothing like Law & Order or the other crime procedural shows so heavily featured on TV. Jack Bauer can save the world in 24 hours, but a shooter can fire on civilians and nothing’s done about it.

As a result, I decided to launch my own investigation. I discovered that I’m the third person to be shot in the same location. The security guards won’t leave the guardhouse and locals in the know are too scared to walk along that stretch of pavement for fear of being turned into target practice. All this in an allegedly ‘safe area’.

Meanwhile, the health palavers continue. After a horribly hard-fought battle with international travel insurance and the US health system, I found a surgeon to operate on me and spent two hours under the knife while they removed the ‘foreign object’. I’m now refusing to walk anywhere, unless it’s a beach but I’m not ready to come home quite yet. I’ve got a criminal investigation to see through and surely someone to sue? After all, this is America. No doubt, my ‘sniper’ will turn out to be some spoiled teenager with too much time on his hands. So, I’m scanning YouTube to see if I’ve become a featured item. I’m in LA now. I can’t help but think of my onscreen cache. As yet, I’m nowhere to be seen. It’s surely only a matter of time.