The one where pigeons shit. Pigeons die. This is London

I’m shattered. Utterly shattered. THIS is the email I sent the estate agent back in London… one of many.

“I am actually rather distressed and stressed out by this tenant's email. He seems overly demanding. I can't keep getting pushed around like this and I feel bullied. I don't want to get emails about dead pigeons while I'm over here. I really don't. This is London. These things happen. Pigeons shit. Pigeons die. This is London. These things happen. I lived there for ten years and was happy. If there's a dead pigeon, get a bin bag and another bin bag, pick it up and dispose of it. I can't remove pigeons from here. It's just life. I feel really backed into a corner. Maybe, if they hate the flat so much they should move out? It's really really stressful. I'm over here and I can't do anything about dead pigeons. I can't do anything about the heating and the gas - all of which was absolutely fine when I left the place. Have they tried looking at the pilot light?”

This is only a brief extract. I think I might call my next book ‘Pigeons shit. Pigeons Die. This is London.’

The crackberry’s not stopped. I meet a lovely girl called Aandrea (correct spelling, yes, this is LA) and an English bloke. He’s been here two years. I look familiar to him. He looks familiar to me. I really hope I’ve not slept with him but wouldn’t be embarrassed if I had. He’s quite nice in a Morten Harket kind of way. I liked Morten. And Mags. But not Pal. Anyway. We exchange numbers too. I'll never call him. He'll never call me.

I drive over to the office in Culver City. I have to pull over twice. Mr X’s got info he needs to have. And we’re still sorting out the Paramount pitch tomorrow. Meetings meetings. Creditation. Sorting out who’s there. All the dramas. Not his. But everyone else's

Then there’s a meeting at the major studio on Wednesday. It’s all go. Exciting. But I need to be on top of it all. And the parent/teacher conference was moved a day. Shit. I have to move another meeting.

Then there’s a DOP who wants to meet Mr X. I set up an appointment. Then I cancel an appointment. The film is precarious right now. I don’t know what’s going on with it. Neither does Mr X. He’s being very Zen. I’m yet to see him flip out. It's impressive actually. I'd be freaking out by now

Emails flying. Two actors are due to have a readthrough of Mr X’s next project this week. Which pages? When is Mr X free? When are they free? And can I sit on one of the actor’s lap?

More emails flying. More meetings and… the killer blow at 12pm. I have to arrange Mr X and his daughter's flights to NYC at short notice. And Mr X wants to use his airmiles. At this short notice, it might be nigh on impossible but I'm going to my best.

This is a job that takes, literally, until 4.30pm. No breaks. Nothing.

I find 1st class with Virgin America. $5k in total. Not good enough. I’m still not sure why he wants to go first class. I’ve found it for a TENTH of that with another airline in coach. But now. So… now I’ve got to email his friend in publicity to see if she can help. She does. She's great. I like her. But it’s still going to cost $4k at least for the two them to travel in first. What more can I do? You either pay or you don’t.

Fuck.

I know he’s not happy but I was clear. I have spent five hours on this. I have been calling every agency. Using every airmile I can. This is it. He’s a reasonable man. He knows I’m not trying to dick him about.

And by 6pm I’m off to meet Mr B. I get to Beverly Glenn and Mulholland and miss the turn. My fucking GPS is not on its game. We bump into Mr Beverly Hills 90210 and head off.

Home by 11pm. Ring Tam on the way (and no handsfree! Oops) and vent about the tenants in Warwick Road.

Bed awaits.