Noam's LA Life

The one where... the Prince is dead

2011-12-03T17:18:00.000-08:00

I never realized before that I'm a lover of fairy tales. I mean, I'm not just a lover of fairy tales, I've been a believer of fairy tales.

I've scoffed for years at others who still hold some kind of attachment to the mythic beliefs these tales proffer. Yet, I've realized that I'm one of those people. I now know that. I've been lying to myself to think that the years of stories I've been subjected to - in books, films, magazines, etc., all types of media in fact - haven't made an impact on my psyche. They have. All these romances, time and time again and they all end in the same manner - happily ever after. The Prince saves the day. Because, without him, you see, life is meaningless. We're only complete when our Prince arrives on our doorstep, taking us away from our misery.

That's the message. When written out that clearly, it seems ridiculous. However, I've bought it for years. I can honestly say that I've been conditioned to believe that one day my Prince will come. There's a sense of shame behind that belief. Obviously, to the world in general, I'm this strong independent woman - I can do it all. Look at me - I have a career, I'm fine. I don't need someone. Especially not some man to support me financially. But then, the career starts getting slightly less stellar, the income becomes slightly less supportive and the choices become slightly less expansive.

But, despite all these bold statements, I feel I have to be rigorously honest. I now realize that I've constantly, in the back of my mind, been thinking "one day my prince will come"... "one day... everything will be okay" ... "one day ... I will be rescued". Because, frankly, life is challenging. Especially when you're on your own - so, I think, it will be easier with someone else because they will fill that emotional void. And, in a world where property rentals are high, I know a number of male friends who have freely admitted that they've got back with girlfriends, just to get 'a sweeter pad'. Great. But, I won't deny the thought has crossed my mind too - think how much I could get, property wise, just sharing with one other...

Now, finally, I think I'm getting real. Or authentic for that matter. And, at this stage in my life, truly claiming my feelings, I have to realize that I've been holding on to old ideas and it's time to let them go. It's time to accept, at this stage, that it is okay to be on my own. Even as I say that, I'm thinking: "no, it's not..." But it has to be, or, at least, I have to be in acceptance of that. I can't keep waiting for someone else to come along and make things better. I have to do it all. I have to earn the money, get the place and be okay with it all. That's the key here - to truly be okay with it all. Not just pay lip service to those words. To be in acceptance, right now, HAS to be better than the frantic insanity of fear that something I think I want hasn't happened... So, that's the challenge, let go of the old ideas, the fairy tales and the myths. The Princess can fly solo. It's really okay. Frankly, it has to be.

The one where... I went to Wisconsin

2011-06-14T15:53:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a trip to Wisconsin to visit my aunt. It’s left me sad – I’m mourning the me that never was. I know that what happened to my family allowed me to be born but I’m sad and angry about the me that I think I should have been. I took this trip as an opportunity to ask about who my family was and where we came from. It depressed me.

My family, in Berlin, were Upper Middle Class, they had servants, they had a country house, they had a Police-trained pedigree German Shepherd called Bendix, they were members of the rowing club and my grandfather was a World War I veteran, who wore a solitaire diamond on his little finger. We had money. And it was all taken away. Gone. Boom. They left the country with what they could carry. And, by all accounts, my grandfather never recovered. He died in a retirement home in Memphis, Tennessee. A far cry from the rowing champion at the posh rowing club from Berlin, Germany with three children, a booming career and plenty of friends.

My father never discussed what he lost. He never expressed feelings. Not feelings that I remember. They were just stories – seeing Hitler in the flesh, being a youth in Berlin in the 1930s, etc., they become legendary tales, which I remember with excitement but it was never personal.

I never knew what to ask I guess, a simple question: "How did you feel?" I'm sure I did, though, it seems a simple enough question but my father was a brilliant man with the ability to deflect questions with another tale and, when dealing with a child, there were a million ways to steer me off the topic. But... How did he feel? I can't ask now. Because he's very very dead. And, furthermore, I don't even believe if I'd get the truth. I think it was buried deep in him, deep in his work, a part of him that he never accessed because he couldn't or wouldn't. He had moved on, he got married, he had three children of his own, he'd managed to claw back an existence within a society and world that had once rejected him and his family.

All this, ALL THIS, was his life and his experiences but now I’m feeling the loss. 62 years after he left Germany, I'm feeling the pain. It's strange. Almost comic. That this wash of grief, anger and fear is washing over me more now. I've always had it, I've just never discussed it. Here's the thing. I’m angry. I want us to still have our home, our lives, our existence. My uncle, my father’s twin, went back to Berlin right after the war. He was there for concentration camp liberations and worked as a translator. I don’t know how he felt. I don’t know how he did it. I wonder if he cried for his losses, if he went to visit the family home in Charlottenburg or if he felt as broken as I feel today? Or, did he do what my father did? You never discuss, it's just life, you move on.

I found out more about my great aunt Judith – the survivor – she got out early and worked for the British Governor in Palestine. She travelled Europe. My grandmother went to visit her in Palestine in 1936, before returning to Berlin. My grandfather was refusing to leave Germany. His Germany – he was a patriot – he’d fought alongside the Kaiser in World War I. Nothing happening on Germany was happening to him… By the time they realised it was nearly too late. Aunt Judith had met a man from Cuba at a party in London. Kurt Poliakoff, head of Shell Oil in Cuba, who arranged passage for the Friedlanders to Cuba. We lost everything. The family lost everything. And now, I’m getting those feelings of loss, of resentment, of wonderment, realisation of what I don’t have, what I never had, what they lost and why didn’t my father ever talk about this with me.

Was it that painful? He spent his life discussing ‘reconciliation theology’ but how reconciled was he? These are feelings I don’t know if I want to really explore, because, in doing so, am I somehow dismissing all that my father worked for and preached about.

As "Albert's daughter", as the daughter of a survivor, I feel like an anomaly. I always have done. That someone my age, of my generation, should experience first generation holocaust survivor guilt. I’m out of my time zone. I’m out of my era. These are feelings dealt with and explored and catalogued. Children of the 60s – this is their struggle, not mine. However, I’m left to explore this world, and feel loss and abandonment. Again.

The One Where My Face Burned

2010-04-17T20:25:00.000-07:00

Ow.

The one where I meet Kevin Bacon...

2009-06-30T23:10:00.001-07:00

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...

2009-06-29T23:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-29T22:53:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-26T15:27:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-25T12:06:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-25T11:43:00.001-07:00

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...

2009-06-25T11:34:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-02T23:29:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-02T01:33:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-31T00:43:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-30T01:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-28T00:05:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-26T01:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-26T00:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-23T00:22:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-20T23:42:00.000-07:00

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.

The one where I have to get the vitamins...

2009-05-20T00:45:00.000-07:00

9am. Moorpark. I can’t really concentrate. I’m still tired and the shit’s hitting the fan with Mr X. There's an issue. Something's not been signed off. It's become a drama and it's affecting Mr X, me, well everyone really. No one's happy. Thankfully it's not my fault but it means all the small stuff can't fall apart. If it does - it's a disaster... DISASTER.

Anyway. I have to drive 20 miles to pick up some posters from the Production office. J’s being really intense. "So.. you’ve got til XXXX. Okay? And then the job's over. Got that. Over." Yes. I've got that. Even though Mr X hasn't told me that he's going to Pittsburgh - no one has apart from J - I know that I'm about to be fired. That's the message. "Mr X moves to Pittsburgh in a few months. Then you’ll lose your job." That's kind of scary. I'm about to lose my job but no one's told me. I explain I find her enthusiasm for the project really intimidating (but without saying intimidating) because I don’t even know if I’m being involved after the next month or so or if I care. I don’t want to care, or get into it, because I may be out so what's the point? But… right now. I don’t know what I want. Do I really want to move to Pittsburgh for three months? Four months? My heart is here. It really is. Anyway. I leave. I can't take it any more. I need a visit to the Java Detour.

Shit. I had to race to Malibu. Race. And… on the way. The phone was going. Mr X. I had to go to the studio to get a Rocky DVD, so I called ahead to get Mr X’s lunch from Spruzzo in Zuma, then I phoned the video store at Heathercliff to get them to put aside Rambo (for work not pleasure reasons I hasten to add). It's all go.

Strange note at the Pavillion at Heathercliff: "Paparazzi fuck off". Basically. But not quite that blunt. However. I saw no one famous. No one at all. Then… it’s off to Spruzzo to get the lunch. It’s ready. Pricey for a tuna salad and a sandwich but there we go. It’s still not stopping as now… it’s off to the dry cleaners. Now this. This is proper assistant work. The running. The journey up the path to the house was a disaster. Struggling under ten items of clothing, a laptop, the necklaces I’d picked up the day before, the lunch and a myriad of other random things for Mr X I tottered up the path.

Mr X was home, he was sitting with his brilliant DP as they went through the script. Kind of fascinating but I couldn't really concentrate as I was preparing the lunch… well. I put it on a plate and sat there, quietly, checking my emails while they talked about the project. It was like they were storyboarding each scene. I didn’t know that happened. Very intense stuff. I checked my emails, printed off some job applications and poof – was out the door. Or so I thought. No. There was still more to do.

I had to get Mr X’s vitamins. I took a picture of the bottles I needed and wrote down the names and brands of the five bottles I had to deal with. It was non-stop. At the vitamin barn the bill came to $180 or so. Mr X’s card (or my version of it) was declined. And declined. And declined. This happened before. I was buying his wine and it got declined and I’ve got nothing in the bank so can’t pay for this at all. I phone the credit card company - it was a mistake. I'm sorted out. I get back to the house. Apparently I didn't get all the vitamins. Mr X wasn't not happy. But I did. I did. I took a picture. He'd forgotten to get out one of the bottles. However, despite the photographic evidence, which I didn't show, remember the boss is always right and I was at fault. I bit the bullet, said nothing, and went back to the store.

Course they didn't have this particular brand at the store. So... it was another couple of miles to the Pacific Greens Store on the PCH to get this bottle of gloop. Great. Thankfully my mileage is getting reimbursed by the studio and, hell, there are worse places to be driving around. The PCH is a pleasure. Not, however, when you hit traffic, but, at least there's an ocean to gaze at.

Everything goes right by the time it’s the evening. I joined a bunch of English girls to play Netball. Netball. It’s been nearly 20 years since I managed to pivot and play. It was exhausting but I loved it. Loved it. The basketball players on the other court were confused. And, for a while, we had an audience but it was nice to do something active that I enjoyed. I even managed to play goal shooter for the second half (first half wing attack) and scored some goals. Obviously I want to play again. Now. Right this minute. But I’m going to have to wait two weeks. Still. At least I’ve tried to do something active.

Throughout the game though I could hear my crackberry. It’s Mr X. He might have to go to London tomorrow or Dublin. But Europe to sort out the issue that was going wrong… It’s all falling apart. The film’s all falling apart – everything. He had to cancel the dinner I’d set up with a composer. I don’t know what Mr X’s doing but I know he’s online and I know he’s stressing out. I need to sleep. We've got a lot to sort out in the morning. The buzzing has stopped. I think even Mr X needs a break.

Following day
I’m due at studio at 10.30 after Mr X’s marketing meeting. The email’s haven’t stopped. He’s due to fly out this afternoon. Dublin here he comes. Part of me just wants him to let it go. After all, as I've been told, I've got a month left. A month. And then I'm being let go.

I’m sitting outside the exec producer’s office chatting to her assistant – but he won’t chat. He’s wearing a headset. He’s busy. He’s getting ahead. He’s not standing for it. He’s going to make it in Hollywood…. So… I retreat to another desk and do some writing while I wait. It’s been two hours now. I’m going nowhere. Mr X comes out. He’s had enough. I’m to go walking with him. We go to his car where he has a cigarette. He’s not a happy bunny. He hands me his girlfriend’s birthday present.

Either way – as I suspected – he’s not had time to get her a card so I’m dispatched to CVS to buy some greeting cards. Thing is, part of me KNEW he wouldn't have time to get a card, this is stuff a great assistant (which I'm not yet, let's be honest here) would have anticipated. But I did anticipate this and I didn't do anything. Now that's not good. It's the little things that really make this job work and I did fuck up a bit there. Oh well. If I ever get a gig like this again, I'm on this... I really will be.

However, more mini dramas for me. I get to the studio car park and... horror of horrors, I've lost my parking ticket. It’s $30… and they don’t validate at the studio anymore. Or do they? I must cut quite a pathetic figure as the exec’s producer slips me some validation passes and even the two queens on the front desk are sympathetic.

I race to CVS. The choices of cards are AWFUL. What does one buy? The dilemma was this: I’m buying a card that Mr X has allegedly bought for his girlfriend. It’s a tough call. I pick the only three blank cards rather than the one with the dog on it which says something about smelling old. Which was funny. But highly inappropriate. I don’t think this is a time for humour. I race back in the rain and am back in the office at the studio with gifts for the two pretty boys at the front desk. Chocolate. Hershey’s kisses. Always a good idea to bring presents for gate keepers at any corporation. I think they were touched.

Anyway, I’m in the corner when the blackberry buzzes. Mr X’s hungry. He wants me to go and get food but I throw this one back at the other assistant. Surely his boss needs to eat too. They send an intern out. Yay! Result! Ideally I need a car parking pass. As this to-ing and fro-ing is getting expensive for the studio and they like to keep things cheap.

Meanwhile, I’m having a poke around the office. DVD box sets. Mmmmmm. I spot Mad Men. I’ve always wanted to watch that. I contemplate ‘borrowing it’ but that would be wrong. Instead I email the other assistant of the other exec producer and ask her if I can have a box set. Two minutes later it’s in my lap. Meanwhile… I’m still sitting outside the office. I’m having fun. I’m online. I’m on facebook. I’m busy. Doing my thing. I get out of the studio at 2pm. They’re all eating away and I thought I wouldn’t be there for lunch so… I realise I’m free to go.

I have Mr X duties. Collect the girlfriend’s necklace and the card and then off to the fedex office. I had posters to send to his father – of Mr X's old film – he promised to send 20 of them to his dad for a charity. It was a nightmare. I haven’t had the balls to say there were only 19. That was all they had. That was it. The poor assistant at CAA worked her arse off to get them as it was. I sent the girlfriend’s necklace next day delivery, while the posters should arrive there by Monday. Done. Dusted. Over. Or so I thought… that came back to bite me in the arse.

Anyway… the rain was bad on the way back to West Hollywood. So… it took me two hours to get to Trader Joe’s and buy some food. By the time I got back, it was 6pm. I was tired. I fell asleep on the sofa. With the dogs. When I woke up, Nico had gone, it was cold and I crawled into bed totally missing the party I’d been invited to at Bar Marmont. I wish I’d gone now. R was there. Nico was there. And a host of other people I know in LA. Damn. Oh well. I was far far too tired and the weather, to be honest, frightened me a bit. The rains coming down were thick and fast. I’d had enough. Bed called.

The one where I don't have a phone signal...

2009-05-18T15:10:00.000-07:00

The morning - spent that reading the book proof of 'Anvil: The Story of Anvil' up at SG's. SG is correcting the book proof and I'm reading. I actually laughed out loud (or snickered) a few times. Two hours later. I’m done. I’ve read it. It's as good as the film.

I met up with JB later. She took me to one of the worst dive bars I’ve been to since I arrived in LA. Brilliant. I have to go back! The exterior looked like a Swiss Chalet. The interior stunk of beers and men. It was Super Bowl day and the place stuck of super bowel. Awful. Swaying men. Fucked off their nuts. It was called Ye Olde xxxxxxx. I wish I could remember. Anyway, an hour later JB and I were off to Dom’s Pizza in Los Feliz to meet her friends. The backfat story came back on to the table and one of the guys knew someone at the LA Weekly. Now they want to do a story. Back fat’s taking off.

During dinner… Mr X was emailing. A lot. The meeting at the major studio at 1pm tomorrow - that we’d spent all weekend sorting out – he can’t make it. He said he could never make it. Oh poo. The studio isn't happy. It’s the evening and we’re talking about tomorrow. The emails from Mr X are coming thick and fast. THICK AND FAST. I’m panicking. But I’m also at dinner and this looks so rude. My solution? I email back. “Can I call you in an hour… I’m on a date.” His response? “On a date? Turn the blackberry off and let’s talk in the morning.” See. He’s reasonable. Anyway… an hour later I get the email… “I can make 1pm.” All sorted. And I got to have a nice dinner with some new people.

The next day - 7.30am - I'm up. And... by 10am... I'm at L's place trying to sell ad space for his brochure. I’ve never sold anything before BUT I need to do some extra work. I just don’t know what’s going on and I like working. I need to do as many things as I can in my life. I don’t want to go home. That’s my motivating factor here. I’m not ready. I’ve just heard from Grazia Australia – they want to buy Backfat saved my life. Meanwhile... I'm at L's making phonecalls and sending emails. I’m not a natural saleswoman. I thought I might be but I feel self conscious. I’ve never tried selling things. Urgh. By 2pm I’ve had it. I can’t sell ice to Eskimos and I can’t sell ad space in a magazine. But I tried. And I’ll keep trying.

I’ve arranged to meet M to walk Norton up and down Runyon. I’m going to lose my fucking Muffin Top if it’s the last thing I do. So much for ‘no diet’ – it’s LA. I can’t settle with this damn muffin top even though it saved my life, well done them but now their job has been done. Time to move on. M and I walk. It’s good. There are a lot of dogs. Crazy people. And dogs. I’m just in an area with a signal and my phone goes crazy.

OH! Typical. The moment I'm out of range... It seems that Mr X's GPS doesn’t work and he’s lost in LA. I’m on Runyon with MK. He’s going slightly crazy. The numbers don’t work. Nothing works. And I can’t do anything. My Blackberry is going in and out… Instead I call J at the production company to guide him to his meeting. I can’t believe I’m getting so stressed out about this. I'm actually freaking out. The company have given us the wrong contact numbers. And why doesn't Mr X's GPS work? I'm going to have to fix that with BMW as soon as possible. Thank god for Ms J. She guides Mr X around LA thanks to google maps and a trusty computer.

As ms J's guiding Mr X to his meeting, the pair of us continue our walk. Home and it’s time to shower. Time’s running out. I’m due at JM’s house at half six. The two of us head to the Beverley Hills Hotel. I’ve not been there since I moved here. I’d forgotten how much I love luxury. “Hello Miss Friedlander…” “Can we help you Miss Friedlander?” I feel like a princess. The gardens of the hotel are lush and filled with bungalows, the exterior floor isn’t grass, gravel or concrete but carpet. Carpet? But then it so rarely rains here. Anyway, after an overpriced peppermint tea (however they did bring tacos with guacamole, sour cream and salsa – dinner!). All’s well.

Then. Bing. Another email from Mr X. The film might be falling apart so we’re trying to fix up meeting after meeting. It's getting later but we've got to sort this out tonight. So it's email after email after email. London's waking up. No sleep tonight.

THE NEXT MORNING

By 8am I’m at Runyon Canyon with Norton. Off for a walk. I’m due to meet E, D and C. They’re starting at the bottom, I’m at the top. 8.30am. No sign of them. Nothing. And I’ve got no signal. Turns out there was no parking and D and C did the walk in record time. I, meanwhile, was huffing and puffing up the hill. The muffin top must go is now my mantra. I’m exhausted. Sweaty. And due in Zuma by 9.30am to pick up a check. That’s it. Just a check. The reason? Mr X’s girlfriend is being given a gift. It's stunning.

So… I’m racing to Zuma to pick up a cheque to pay the woman making the gift because Mr X won't do a bank transfer... is this something not done in America? Thankfully it’s a stunning drive. I do Las Virgines and at least I get to look at the incredible scenery. There’s NOTHING to beat this. NOTHING. So I’m grateful for that. By 11.45am, I've been to the house, driving to the woman's house in Westwood, picked up the gift and now I'm on my way to West Hollywood to drop someting off at the casting office.

I park up and there’s MG, who works at the casting office. She’s with two men. I don’t know who they are. Though... one of them looks kind of familiar. As I get into the office, R’s in the meeting with one of the men. Fuck me if it isn’t Kenneth Brannagh. I love Sir Ken. Love him. How many times can I walk up and down outside the office to look at Sir Ken. I can’t. But I love him. Time to go before I totally humiliate myself. Off to the Java detour where I finally do some writing and then, being a glorious day, MK comes to meet me and we sit outside. God I love the sun here. It makes being here so much better. I’m due to meet SG this afternoon before he goes so I’m head back up to Nico’s to walk the other dog.

I’ve decided I hate the two words ‘Heads Up’. I use them. Everyone uses them… “Just to give you the heads up” so… ‘heads up… it’s going to be rough’ etc., I can’t stand it. But. I’ve taken to using them. Anyway, J calls. She’s got a heads up for me. So… it seems, according to J, that they’re moving to Pittsburgh in two weeks. So I’ll be losing my job in two weeks. What the fuck? And no one’s told me? I hate all this mixing up of stuff. All I can do is my job but it would be nice to know. I don’t know if I want to go to Pittsburgh or not. I really don’t. I want to stay here.

Anyway. That’s my head’s up. J, meanwhile, is getting so involved in everything. Fingers in pies. Not just in them but jammed in. Hard. She’s ramming her fingers in there with abandon. She wants a producer role on this film, and Mr X's brother’s fighting for her… I want to work on this film too but I'm exhausted. Part of me feels like sod the lot of you - especially now that I've heard that I might be off the project anyway... But maybe I will be. Just no one’s telling me and I’m being a pussy and can’t confront.

At 4.45pm I’m up at SG’s house. His assistant’s there and they’re putting the final touches on the extras for the Anvil DVD. They’re brilliant. I mean just brilliant. I love this film and truly believe it’s going to explode. I’m bursting with pride before heading home when the masseuse arrives and totter back down the hill.

By 8.30pm I'm out with the English crew on Robertson. I’m sitting round trying to concentrate when my blackberry’s buzzing. It’s 8.30pm. “Noam. Call me.” I ignore it. My phone rings (silently). I ignore it. It’s Mr X. “Noam. Call me at the house.” My phone buzzes. “Noam. Call.” I leave the meeting. I’d trying to hard to meditate. I eventually leave. I can’t lose patience here. He’s my boss. Remember - you do anything and everything he asks. Personal time is NOT an option.

The problem? Just some clarification. There are emails coming in from the studio and J. They're thick and fast. Marketing meetings, meetings about the films, meetings with people and it's just on going and on going. It's exhausting. Everyone wants a slice of Mr X. Everyone. I'm trying to protect him, he's still writing a draft of the film and there's a lot going on. A lot. I'm trying hard to keep it together and make sure everyone gets what they need and that he gets what he needs. And what he needs is no one to disturb him. I'm just getting a handle on this job. Basically... your life is over. End of.

I’m all over the shop. I’m tired. I join P, S and friends for dinner. I’m still reeling. I can’t concentrate. I get home. I’m tired tired tired. Time for bed.

The one where there's a 3-D flying midget...

2009-05-17T23:06:00.000-07:00

Am still in love with Nico's dogs. Here's Norton. But... enough animal worship. The main problem today is my back. My aching back.

My back is agony. AGONY… but I have a chiropractor’s appointment at 1.30pm. Thank god for lovely Mr R – I met him through a friend. He’s letting me have his insurance appointment as I’ve no cash. I’m in so much pain.

I failed to mention that just one day ago I met my chiropractor when she was training in the park (but had no money) and she cricked me on a park bench. I needed more however. I’m all out of shape. Bent out of shape. That’s what I am.

But… I have to pick up Mr A, Mr X's co-writer on his current, in Venice to get him to the casting. I head over to Venice but I’m an hour early so decide to walk down the beach. God it’s depressing. I know. I should feel that hippy vibe and celebrate the ocean and beach and all that bollocks. But… I don’t. I really don’t. It’s shit. There’s a vibe of ‘waster’ going on. People just getting smacked up. There are a lot of crazies and I find it all a bit intimidating. I like being around a buzz – the buzz of people getting on with their lives. This feels like somewhere where people have given up. Chill man. That kind of vibe. The kind of vibe when I was at university and people were just doing nothing. NOTHING. I kind of envy their easy does it attitude and devil may care mentality but it’s not me. Not me at all. I think that this is where I could end up. IN a sleeping back, covered with pigeons and on the beach if I don’t pull my finger out and soon. Jesus. What a thought. Time to pull that finger.

So… I pick up Mr A. He says he’ll read my scripts anytime. And we have a nice chat. I’m worried the project we're working on is going to fall apart. I want it to work out for Mr X you see. I am fond of him. But I'm also terrified of what will happen if it all goes tits up. I'll be out of a job, sure, but that's not really the worse thing. It's him - this is his life. It's all getting a bit real now.

Anyway, I drop off Mr A and head off to be rearranged. Fuck. It hurt. Then... it was back again to the casting. The actresses are coming thick and fast. People from films, Lost, House, you name it… While I’m chatting to the girls in the casting office, I see these actors drift past and head off to see Mr X. My job? Get the tea. So. This is my life. If it was a film, you’d have the swinging camera shot across glamorous LA and then… a girl carrying eight cups from Urth Café, plus a chicken soup tottering back to the casting office. See that? That’s me. I gave up an entire life and career to move to LA. And now? I’m a soup carrier. I’m 3X (yep, I'm too ashamed to admit my age). And I’m a tea lady. I really hope everyone back home is terribly proud of me. See. This is what I left a national newspaper for. Yay me. But... I have to remember... everything takes time. I just moved here and I've not even finished a draft of my new script. Perhaps I should actually do the action before whinging about the 'oh fuck what happened' scenario.

At the end of the day, Tam and I go off to see a film. My boss was going to send me out on an unpalitable errand for him apparently but, thankfully, someone else did it. A relief if I'm honest. This was one job that might have been a job too far. Yay. Result. And as I'm going out with one of Mr X's colleagues, I'm kind of off the hook for a bit. Double result.

So… off to Sherman Oaks to the Arclight to see the Uninvited. Not bad for a horror. We’re so geed up we decide to see my Bloody Valentine 3D. There are some smacked up people in the audience. They want to steal the 3D glasses. Jeeeeeesus. Best bit of the film? Tamara's scared of 'little people' (dwarves and midgets). I know this. We all know this. So the 3-D midget that gets murdered and flung out at the audience provided me with some hysterical laughter as Tam was freaking out. Brilliant. However. It's not worth the money after that. Just give me the millions spent on this and I'll pee all over it too. That might work better as a concept.

The film was made by a lot of the people who are working on the project I've been working on so it was nice to see the credits and go…. Oooooh. The film? Shit. Utter shit. And 3D glasses are annoying. By the time we leave it’s 2am. We can’t find Tam’s car. But… I know it’s there. Somewhere. After a lengthy search. Result. And… by 3am. I’m home. Ready for another day in LA LA.

The one where I wheeze up Franklin...

2009-05-17T12:18:00.000-07:00

I saw a strange thing today. So... I took a picture. It will mean nothing to anyone else really. But it's a license plate. With my dead dad's initials. I probably should be taking pictures at xam as I go home but I was excited... I want that plate.

In the meantime... I'm so tired. So. So. Very tired.

My own fault. If I choose to get into a hot tub at 2am and stay there for two hours and then drive home then I'm going to be shattered. Especially when I've got Mr X stuff to do in the morning. I wade through his schedule. It's quiet today. In fact, it's been quiet for a while.

The pool heater is working. Check. The TV remote is working. Check. The new scripts have been delivered. Check. Basically, Mr X has gone into isolation as he's finishing the final final shooting draft of his script. He doesn't want to be disturbed so the only thing I have to deal with, really, is answering the phone to the myriad of people who want a slice of him. This. This I can cope with.

By now I know who's important and who's not. Head of agency/important agent - check. Wannabe actor who met him in Chicago and would like to be seen for his next film - check. I know the difference. I'm dealing with the casting crew and team Mr X. Would that it were always this easy. Would that he were always writing because this calm is good. I'm breathing again. Thinking: "I'm going to be okay". There are stresses, naturally, with studios and actors and other people but... right now. Mr X and I are okay. We're not seeing each other. As long as a) his house doesn't flood or b) the pool heater keeps working and c) other household issues tick along. I'm going to be okay.

I know this day will come.

In the meantime, I've arranged to meet some guy. He's a friend of a friend in town. The friend, a girl, is keen for me to meet this guy. Why? I'm suspicious of course. Is this some kind of date? Is he even aware of this? I know nothing about him but his name. But. I know what it's like being new in town, or visiting, an English accent is, for me anyway, a welcome sound.

I've been invited to a party at Mr P and Ms S (who had invited me for Christmas very kindly - yay them) so I suggest we meet there.

Anyway, I suddenly realise I don’t have time to go home and change. Shit. I race to the Beverly Centre. I need to buy something killer. I’ve got no make up either. I race through. RACE. Then… I find this lovely woman and go: “Help. You’ve got 15 minutes to dress me. I need something killer.” Bless her, she comes up trumps. I leave. Head to Mac. They do my make up.

By 7.45pm I’m at Judy’s place doing my hair. I get a call from Ms S… “Are you still coming? We’re about to sit down to dinner.” DINNER? I thought it was a party. You know. Party? Shit! Dinner. Yum. Lots of thoughts. Food good. But ... Er. I can’t bring my 'date' to a dinner. I send him a text. Apologising. Can I take him for lunch tomorrow? Maybe? Shit. He says no worries. I’ve never met him but he seems cool.

But now… it’s 8pm. I’ve arrived at Ms S and Mr P. All made up. All wearing a dress. Over my jeans. It’s a v. casual occasion - I thought it was a ... you get the point. Oh well. My friend Mr S’s there. Thank god. I love Mr S. Probably a bit too much. As in. I think he’s great. Funny and clever. Possibly one of the few people in LA whom I think is cleverer than me. The evening is spent flirting with him. I go back to his house after dinner carrying a pinkberry. He shows me a clip of his new film on the laptop and then… I leave. I mean. I don’t know what to do. This is what happens to me when I like someone. I do a runner. So. Bosh. I fled down the hill back to mine.

The next day I'm meeting the girls for breakfast at Mel’s Diner in the Valley. I feel like I’m chasing my tail. No sooner do I arrive and then I have to turn around. I’m meeting the guy I blew off last night at Pain Le Quotidien. He’s there with his little (very little) brother. Random.

Anyway… he asks if I’d like to do something after lunch. Sure. But he suggests HIKING? Jews don’t hike. Ever. Anyway… I have some trainers in the car and we dump off his brother back home and off we set off for Franklin. I’m wheezing up the hill. WHEEZING. I am just not fit. Not fit at all. We get on well. But, still, this whole wheezing, unfit thing just isn’t working out for me at all. Still, at least I got to see another canyon. I want to return. I'm not sure about this meeting new peole and then wheezing up a hill with them. It's not good for the ego. I've not been off cigarettes for long but... who am I trying to kid? I wasn't that fit anyway.

We head back to our respective homes along Mulholland. Beep beep.

Of course. I knew I was getting too comfortable.

It's Mr X.

Tomorrow is another day.

The one where I return to the racist bar

2009-05-17T02:50:00.000-07:00

I’m on my way to Mr X’s. We have a 12pm meet. It’s 10.30. I’m early. I’m nearly there. Bosh. I'm whizzing through the back roads, down Las Virgines, my favourite drive in the world and...

I get a call.

Cancelled. Arse. I’m not happy. But what to do... That's the way it is.

I've got to leave Roof's place too. It's over. It was amazing while it lasted but... so now I've moved into Nico’s place. I’m living out of a suitcase but I love the location. I’m in the Hills. I feel like I’ve arrived. I love his dogs too. Despite the constant fear I feel about my job, I feel I can cope if these dogs are around.

Meanwhile... Tamara invited me over to her friend's house party. Amazing house. Amazing. Up on Lookout Mountain. I was more thrilled because a friend from home turned up. I can't tell you how exciting it was to see someone from home. Someone who's known me since I was eight. I got to show her my bullet wound - she's a doctor. She has no fear. And it was so nice to show her an amazing house. Incredible. The view. The interior. A proper ‘fuck me’ moment. Now that's a house.

I've also been getting crank calls. The details aren't really necessary to put up here but they're relentless and kind of creepy. I'm fairly sure I know where they're from. I try and ignore them. However, they're ongoing and I have to be at Mr X's tomorrow and I'm not getting much sleep as I'm thinking about these calls. I'm not sure quite what to do about them.

Some other friends are in town this week and, the following night, we go out to the bar with the racist statue...

The girls are back from Vegas, where they've been for the past few days. I'm jealous. I was too broke to join them on their jaunt.

We go bowling in the evening. I’ve only been bowling once before. I don’t like not being good at things but I give it my best shot. It's confirmed. I'm shit. Utter shit. I just don't really know what I'm doing and... if I'm not brilliant from the off... what's the point? And. I'm not brilliant. However I tried my best and I'm glad when it's suggested we head to the dive bar with the racist Aunt Jemima statue where Mr J and Ms I do some line dancing.

I'm exhausted as we head back to Mr J’s and… by 3am… it’s hot tub time. Lucky old Ms J. It’s him and six girls. I drive home through Mulholland at 4.30am. I’m shattered. I’m terrified the dogs are going to go mental as I creep in but their tails are wagging. It’s all good.

It's even better than good because Mr X hasn't really been around again. I'm always doing stuff for him... the schedule, the work... the works even but today I've been off the hook. Yay!

The one with the product that no longer exists...

2009-05-13T17:05:00.000-07:00

I have to be in Zuma by 9am. Mr X needs something picked up. I’m on the road. All 88 miles of a round trip. I've included a picture I took while driving my hire car. Yep. That's the road going to Zuma. The PCH. I just love it. LOVE IT. The ocean all the way. I’m going to pick up something from Malibu. The trouble is this 'thing' doesn't exist anymore. The company's in liquidation... And that's what I find out as I arrive. My first thought? shit.

It’s very hard explaining to someone that certain things don’t exist anymore. So… I’m looking for a solution. That’s the key to being an assistant here. Sure. There’s a problem but find a solution. If they’re reasonable they’ll listen. If they’re not they’re a wanker so fuck ‘em. Mr X is reasonable. But… I still find the whole confrontation aspect scary.

Having to say ‘they don’t have what you want’ or ‘they can’t do what you want them to do’ is not easy. People don’t get it. But such is life. This is what happens here. Everyone’s on the greasy pole and they all have a sense of entitlement. Even me. But… I’m the bottom of the food chain. And that’s so hard to deal with. Still… I have a bit of power.

Mr X also wants a DS Lite for his daughter for Xmas. In a special pink colour. I’ve checked on line. They don’t exist. They were limited edition last year. Now what? I’ve googled. I’ve ebayed. I’ve phoned Japan. Stress. Will she be happy with another colour? I do hope so.

While driving from Malibu to Zuma I'm trying to sort out his phone. I've been on the phone for 40 cocking minutes. And… the upshot. I’m not authorised on his account. I ring up again and pretend to be Mr X. I put on an US accent. I try to be a man. It’s just humiliating. I pretend I'm a man with a cold - I'm shocking. The US accent, the man accent... it's gone horribly wrong for me.

Mr X's writing partner, Mr A, hears me walking around the house pretending to be Mr X. He’s ashamed on my behalf. He’s never heard anything so pathetic in all his years. And… obviously… they still won’t talk to me.

I track Mr X down in the bathroom to get the authorisation. I hate the beaurocracy here. I have the keys to his life. I know everything about him from SS number to passwords (which I’ve set up) but I can’t get phone information. A joke. A fucking joke. By 10.30am this is still going on and I’m ready to stab someone. Anyway… eventually I head back to West Hollywood. Furious. FURIOUS. But I can’t lose it because I’m doing a job for him and he needs his phone working. In the end it’s all about money and payments. There wasn’t even a fault on the line. Another day in Hollywood land. Another person's cock up rather than mine but... this isn't important right now.

Back on the homestead...

Someone’s coming over to Roof’s place to give it the onceover. Is it clean enough? His lease is up on December 31st. I’ve tried to keep it clean. I’ve fallen in love with the place. It feels like home. I feel sorry for his neighbour though. Andrea. When I told him Roof had gone he looked at me as if I’d put a knife through his heart. He wanted Roof’s email, which I refused to give, I said he could give me his. He went off in a huff and I never heard from him again.

Later that day, I head to the police station. I’ve filled in my ‘victims assistance claim’ and I want some answers. No one’s terribly helpful. I’m at the station asking for help. No one really wants to know. Don’t get shot in the Wilshire District. That’s my tip. I wait about half an hour and then, finally, someone comes out. They’re a bit sympathetic. Just a bit. I want to cry but I remember I’ve got to go to Roof’s place to wait for his running machine to turn up. It turns up but they won’t take it downstairs. It’s 480 pounds and they can’t deal with it. I tried cleavage. Nothing. I tried a cash bribe. Nothing. They just left. Shit. I promised Roof I’d take care of it but they just wouldn’t play ball. I feel awful. Damn. Now what? Maybe I am a crap assistant after all?

The one where I go to Camp Freddy

2009-05-13T00:40:00.000-07:00

No one's really been in touch since the shooting. I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself and miss home a bit today. I don't really know that many people so I feel a bit isolated. Which is fairly normal.

I'm due at Mr X's at 9am. Zuma. I have to send a bunch of actors some emails as Mr X. I have to get their personal emails. So I've been calling and emailing agents in London and LA to get their details. It isn't easy. They don't want to give them out. But I try and try. I eventually get about 90% of the actor's details. And I send out the emails. Some of them reply immediately. I try not to read their responses but... you know. I'm human. Everyone's being so lovely. Even though they didn't get the lead role. I want to be friends with them all but they don't even know I exist.

A drive back to LA and...

That’s it with my 'friend'. I’m driving back from Bunnie Lane in Zuma and I get the call. He’s angry. Apparently he’s being tough with me because ‘if he’d been tougher with Heath, he’d still be alive.” Anyway. He’s so angry. He asked me to review a friend’s book in the Telegraph for him. When I said I couldn’t he went crazy. I’m so upset. He’s flipped. Flipped. I get the email. The phone call. And then the threats. That’s it. Three years of friendship down the pan because he’s angry. The comments need not be repeated. So... I’m really hurt. I call Jennifer. While doing that I get a vile message on my answer phone. I’m shaking by the end. I call him back. I want to sort this out. But… nothing. I’m dead to him. An hour later I’m dropped on facebook. That’s social death. You know it’s over when you’re dropped on facebook. I cry a bit. I check facebook again. I've now been blocked. Now that's real anger.

Quite a week really - shot in the back one day, stabbed in the back the other. He was one of the most brilliant men I'd ever met, wonderful brain, sharp intellect but...

This has not been a good time. My job is a disaster and now my friendships are turning to shit. Ah well. What's doesn't kill you etc., etc.,

On the plus side, I'm going to the Camp Freddy show with my friend Ms J. Her husband's in the band. What fun! I mean! fun! They get rockers on stage with them to jam and it was just great. The guy from Linkin Park doing Paradise City. Chester? That's what I think his name was. Chester maybe? Yep. And on it went. I mean... I know I'm not into music and all these people are wasted on me but it was amazing!

There were some incredible artists up there - Slash among them. He was just incredible. Here's a snippit from an online article:

"I have seen the future of rock & roll, and its name is Camp Freddy. Compared to the past of rock & roll, the future of rock & roll is a little older, a bit more intimate, but still wildly and undeniably cool. Camp Freddy describe themselves as "not a band" but "also way more than a jam session." More descriptively they are called an "Occasional Happening" and "a freak of Hollywood nature." The happening freaks in question are -- at their core - guitarist Dave Navarro (Jane's Addiction), drummer Matt Sorum (The Cult, Guns 'N Roses/Velvet Revolver), Billy Morrison (The Cult), Chris Chaney (session great and tours with Alanis Morrisette and Jane's Addiction) with charismatic and charming frontman Donovan Leitch, son of another fine singer you should know who went simply by that first name.

"Based on Wednesday's show, Camp Freddy is an extremely welcoming place -- a packed crowd at the Roxy saw a constant stream of guests and fellow travelers take the stage including Slash, Steve Jones, Mark McGrath and Chester Bennington of Linkin Park, among others, running through an intoxicating blend of classic rock and punk standards. A singer named Franky Perez sang the hell out of "Highway To Hell," Chester Bennington made "Mountains" by Jane's Addiction even more majestic and McGrath did a very credible "EMI" with Steve Jones sitting in. And Slash played "Paradise City" and seemed happy to be with a band that actually appeared to like one another. "*** END OF ARTICLE EXTRACT

I got to go backstage... It turns out I'm a celebrity in my own right. I'm the British girl that got shot! The lead singer, Donovan... turns out that Ruby, who drove me to the hospital, was on her way to meet Donovan that day. It's brilliant. Truly brilliant. I didn't even think about Mr X ONCE. Not ONCE.

However... Mr X's not happy. Not happy at all. He gave me a hard time... My work, apparently, has dropped off this week. I think for obvious reasons - things haven't been great. No. But then I was shot at the start of the week so I've been a bit slow to get things together. Mr X's not too sympathetic. He wants his pool fixed. The guy I spoke to when I was getting gassed hasn't fixed it yet. Despite me phoning him. Repeatedly. I'm really upset. I don't think I'm best suited to this. I want another job. It's only been six weeks and I'm so unhappy. I'm just trying to get on with it but there are other jobs.

In the meantime I'm loving my own three-bedroomed place. Roof pops by occasionally but it's basically mine.

I still haven't told my mother about being shot. Ulp. She's going to find out at some stage... my credit card bills are going back to London so she'll see 'Cedars Sinai' on my bill. She's not stupid. She'll work it out. Piss.

The one after I got shot...

2009-05-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

I haven't moved into my new home yet... you know, the place where I got shot. The Palazzo. Now. The Palazzo. They're being awful. So so so unhelpful. I drove back there and no one even knew I'd been shot. The manager didn't know. The security didn't know. I went back there to find out what was going on. I have to say I was a bit shaky but... well... what to do eh? Just move on with your life.

Still no drugs. I don't know what to do. I have a bullet in my back still as I don't know if I can get it out with my insurance. Thing is. I'm not a bloody rapper. I don't need metal in me to be someone... I want it out. OUT I tell you. But I have no idea what to do.

Lisa in London came up with some nicknames for me in the meantime: Jew-Pac, 50 Shekel, Jam Master J-Date, Ol' Dirty Bagel. Hmmm. Again. I'm not a rapper. I don't need a bullet floating around in my back to make it in my crew. But, I appreciate the names and start calling myself Jew-Pac. It's sort of catching on.

I bumped into my 'friend', who was horrific. I think he thinks I've done this all for attention. yep. Like I went out in West Hollywood to just get shot. Sure. That's normal. Jesus. He told me I wasn't in 'the solution' and got really angry with me. I burst into tears. I'm in a lot of pain and have this thing in my back... Thing. You know. Bullet. One of them. Thankfully my friend's friend Lisa gave me her doctor's number. I went back to Judy's and called the Doctor who put me in touch with the surgeon. His name? A piece of genius this... Dr Moses... Fallas. Only I could get a Fallas as a doctor.

Then it's on the phone to the insurance company in England again to sort this all out and get it all approved. We arrange surgery, I get some vicodin and... I'm booked in for surgery the following day.

Vicodin. Incidentally. Shit. I thought it would be more fun. I want some more. Good thing I gave the packet to someone else to dispense really. But... seriously. I thought they would do more... Very disappointed.

SURGERY

This is my first general anaesthetic. I'm going to go under for two hours but first... the insurance isn't coming through. This is a disaster. I have to pay. It's thousands. I argue and argue and argue. Finally. They agree. My operation is in half an hour. Just as I'm getting changed and prepped... it's the blackberry.

Mr X.

Mr X is not happy.

"Noam... your work has been slipping this week. Why isn't my heater fixed in the pool? What's going on NOAM? This isn't good enough."

Yep. He's really not happy.

I try and explain. You know. I've been shot. IBS as it must be called from now on. But he's not interested. He's got his shit. "Where's the meeting tomorrow?" I don't know. I'm getting whoozy. "What's going on Noam?" I really don't know. I feel like passing out. I'm pretty sure he knew I was getting surgery today but he's convinced I was shot with a BB gun and think I'm being a pussy. Well, it wasn't with a BB gun and the police are investigating this for attempted murder... I'm a little freaked out.

He gets off the phone and I call someone else and cry. The doctors are trying to remove my blackberry from my hand but I won't let it go. I call Ms J, who works for Mr X's brother and Ms S, the housekeeper, and as them to have a quiet word... I'm just a bit under the weather at the moment. You know. I've been shot. IBS. IBS.

I call Christian, the pool guy, about the heater. Again. He says he'll deal with it. I'm grateful. And now... the doctor has removed my blackberry... they're trying to put me under now. I'm freaking out... But the blackberry... the blackberry...

I don't remember much more.

A few hours later

I'm coming round now. That was good. I just passed out.

I have more stitches now. And no bullet. The police took that for evidence and I have no idea where it's gone. I wanted that bullet. BUT.... nope. It's gone.

Judy comes to pick me up. I'm so whoozy. I don't really know what's going on. I check the blackberry. A missed call from Mr X.

I get given some vicodin a few hours later. That night was a bit of a blur.

The day after the day after I got shot

So... now I'm moving into the place I got shot outside. Good. Great. But... it's my own place for a month. Shame I can't use the gym or anything - what with the old seeping wound and that. Nice.

My friend Dawn meets up with me and takes me to get my nails done. Her treat. Nice. A bit of pampering. Sitting in the chair with the vibrate back thing was probably, in hindsight, a mistake... but ... no stitches burst and my nails look good.

Back home and Roof's round to take the last of his stuff. And... he's gone. I go to bed. I'm due at Mr X's to do some work in the morning. The blackberry's not really stopped. Course not. I mean. Really. Why would it? I've only been shot with a .22. Not a 'proper' gun but... for the record... it was scary. I didn't like it. And the bullet was still metal with a sharpened bit at the end. Hardly something to ignore. It wasn't some kind of pansy pellet. People have been a bit dismissive... they thought I was shot with a shot gun or something. No. Sorry to disappoint. And thank god!

The day after the day after the day after IBS...

I've been running around for Mr X. And... then I get to the Malibu County Market and I got accosted in the carpark by some wannabe. Brilliant.

Now this was ridiculous. I thought I’d burst my stitches while on the drive to Malibu. So… I stopped at the CVS on the PCH by Malibu and bought some plasters. I was taping up the wound and this guy went ‘you got it’. Was he a handsome stud? No. A middle-aged podgy man with a comb over. “Thanks” I replied. Mustering up some dignity despite having displayed my backfat to all and sundry there… He didn’t move away so I gave him my line of the year: “I’ve been shot”. And then told him the story… He was shocked.

He asked me what I was doing in LA. I told him about working for a director. Before you knew it he said: “oh? Really? I have some headshots in the car. Is there a project he’s working on that he’s casting right now.” Dude. Seriously? I just told you I got shot and now you’re pitching your sorry fat arse to me. Fuck. Off. I was stunned. Apparently that’s the way of LA. But. Really? You think you’re going to get a part in a film by talking to a girl in a car park? Fucking loser. I deflected him and got in my car and headed back to LA.

I went to the Grove... and decided to do some shopping. I thought that might cheer me up. I've been feeling a bit, well, down... You know. IBS and all. So I found this dream dress. I mean it's just perfect and I hate shopping. It was reduced from $250 to around $80. Whil I was paying for the dream dress this woman appeared out of no where.

“Do you remember me?” Hard to know really. I meet a lot of people. Turns out she was the nurse that put me under a few days ago at the surgery. Perfect. I showed her my stitches… Poor thing. There she was buying a dress for a party and there was me exposing my back fat. Seems the stitches are healing nicely. Always good to know. Even though they are UGLY...

Back at the ranch, Ms J came round and we came up with a film idea. Good. Finally. Something creative for me to sink my teeth into rather than all the food I've been eating recently. Seriously, giving up smoking as led to a HUGE appetite.

After Ms J left, it was a case of some skyping with Tash in London and then bed. I'm still oozing a bit and can't have a bath yet... Nice.

The one where I get shot...

2009-05-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

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.

The one where I spend a few days at Mr X's in Zuma

2009-05-10T15:31:00.000-07:00

Tam is still sleeping... and I'm up. It's 6.30am. 7am. 7.30am. I decide to walk on the beach as Tamara and I have Mr X's place for a few days. We're taking a break while he's away. It's a beautiful morning. I've not been this happy in a while. Then... I get a call.

Panic. Is it Mr X? Please don't be Mr X. Please. I know it's my job but please.... I glance down at the phone...

It's only Tamara. "Where am I?" She comes down and joins me as we walk along the beach... Bliss. We're the only people on the beach as we enjoy the early morning.

We spend most of the day eating, the pool's freezing but we decide to jump in. I'm so cold I go on the trampoline to warm up. Tamara, meanwhile is in a wet suit in the pool (yes, it is that cold). So while I'm bouncing and she's swimming... in come the pool men. Boing. Boing. I don't know who's more embarrassed. I think it's me.

Turns out the fuse box is needed to fix the pool. We look for it but nothing so I call the landlady who screams at me for disturbing her. "Sort it out, you're the assistant...," is her scream.
Jesus. I don’t know where the fusebox is. How am I meant to know? I was sorting it out. Hence calling her. But... no joy.

Tamara, thank god, can cook and she whips up salmon, cauliflower cheese, cabbage, carrots and sweet potato mash. I decide, post food, to take another walk along the beach. I try running. Whof. Out of shape. Really out of shape. I think the pumpkin pie didn't help my cause.

Early to bed tonight.

THE NEXT DAY

Up. Breakfast. Starbucks. Then... Ms S turns up. Mr X's housekeeper and I get the riot act about Mr X. How he's going to let me down... the full works AND she's highly suspicious that we're both staying there. She doesn't trust me one bit! But she's been with him for years and loves him dearly (everyone who works with him is amazingly loyal - he inspires incredible loyalty from everyone around him) and I'm just some newcomer in his life. Ha. I think. I'll be sticking around lady so you'd better get used to me. That's what I thought anyway...

I escape Zuma for a while and go shooting with Mr B, Patrick and Ms J. Randomly, well, not that random, Jack Osbourne's there too. He's a friend of Mr B's and has a big gun. Shooting was fantastic. I'm a good shot. The kickback is incredible. I mean, you think you know what to expect and bam, it hits you in the chest.

Next time I go, however, I'm wearing a poloneck. The bullets kept jumping out of the gun, I mean, sorry, the SHELLS and flying down my cleavage. Great. Good. I'm covered with burn marks above my chest. Not pleasant at all. But Mr B thinks it's funny. He's not seen this happen before. And he's been shooting a while. Thank god he was so patient.

Then it was time for my first ever target thing and I was goooooood. It felt gooooood. It's loud as hell though. I really enjoyed my first time at a shooting range and then... it was back to Zuma. Tam’s got cabin fever. We need to leave Zuma again - but where to go?

So... we drive to Mr J’s and go to the world's dodgiest bar. It's so the other side of town. Somewhere on Vineland. I don't even know. I just know that it's around 44 miles away. The bar's fun. There's line dancing and the works. We're the only people there under 40, apart from Toni, the waitress. The reason why I call this bar dodgy? It has a racist statue for a start...(see below). Anyway, we play darts. I'm rubbish. Then Mr J and Ms L get stuck into the line dancing... I'm still looking at the statue (see below).

Jeremy joins us and I leave the bar at 1.30am. It's a 44 mile trip back to Zuma. Aaaargh. By 2.30am Tam and Jeremy turned up... 16 Candles on the big screen before passing out on the sofa.

I might be staying at Mr X's but there's no way I'm sleeping in his bed. Wrong. Very wrong.

Tamara goes back to Jesse's the next day and I'm alone in Zuma. A friend turned up. He freaked me out turning up at 10.30pm. He left quite swiftly but I hardly slept that night.... I think Zuma on my own is not a good idea. No matter how idyllic. Still, it's all over soon, Mr X's back tomorrow which means nose + grindstone. Or... do my job. That's what I'm paid to do. This is Hollywood - I have to remember that.

Bliss while it lasted though...

The one where I drive to Zuma and back and Zuma again

2009-05-09T16:45:00.000-07:00

I’m due at Mr X’s at 9.30am. So. At 8.30am I’m up. I’ve got my packed suitcases and head off to Mr X’s. Tired. Oh. So. Tired. I get to Zuma. His daughter's there. She's very sweet. Very friendly. Very loving. Not a brat, which is refreshing and terrifically bright. I like her. She's watching TV and there's no sign of Mr X. The buff mate's there but... where's Mr X? It's the Hollywood culture - hurry up and wait. So I wait. he appears at nearly 11am.

He’s as nice as pie. He doesn’t even mention the BMW. The BMW I'd lost sleep over that night as I was in total fear that I'd done something wrong again. Anway, I take him through the car. Show him how to use it. We go through all the other stuff. Busy busy busy. I’m out of there by 1.30pm. Finally. We’ve talked about charity work, we’ve talked about his upcoming schedule, play tickets… all that jazz. I think it's all sorted out. Good. Few. It is the weekend after all...

And... I've got my suitcases in my car. I go off to look at an apartment in Hollywood. It smelled of wee. And overlooked a police station. Aargh. But then... a text from Roof. His flat's going to be empty in December so I can flat sit! Yay! Result! Quite what I'm going to do in a three-bedroom three bathroom apartment I don't know but I'm so excited!

The following morning, we're all meeting at Sacha's house and arrange to have lunch at the Chateau with Roof, Nico, Nina and friends. I'm so excited I end up locking my keys in my car - WITH THE ENGINE RUNNING. What an idiot. My cell doesn't work so I can't let anyone know that I'm going to be late. I'm freaking out. Thank god for Nico and triple AAA.

Lunch was nice and then I got to see my school friend Dan. And his newborn son Henry. And his fiancee Krystyna. Yay! Friends from home. Back to Nico's and while reversing out of his drive on Mulholland I manage to scrape the entire side of the car by reversing into a pole. Jesus.

Then... it's my driving test following a two-hour driving lesson with some freak who decided to tell me about all the famous people he'd taught... I say famous. They were usually the second assistant to x. Or the third assistant to y. He's probably going to tell people he had that Mr X's assistant in his car last week. Anyway. No matter. I passed first time. Yay! I have been driving about 18 years so really... but it's different here. It's the other side of the road for starters. Wrong.

And then... Emails from Mr X from 7pm onwards. He’s not happy. There's some stuff going down. It's not that he's not happy with me, I think, just that other people have been stupid and... well... now I know I’ve got a horrid day tomorrow.

5.45am. Wake up. Try to call Mr X. He's got a conference call at 6am. No signal. Send email. Call from landline. Someone from CAA fucked up. No signal. Arrgh. He has a conference call at 6am. Where is the call? Where is the access code? What's going on? Nooooooooo.

Mr X's sending emails and going crazy. This is not good. Not good at all. Eventually he gets through. Then I go back to sleep. Up again at 8.15am. Head for Moorpark. 10am off to Zuma. I have to pick up a video that Mr X wants to get to the casting office by lunch time. He tells me this at 9.45am. Great. He's screaming at me. I'm driving in the rain. It's really dark. And a bit scary. LA in the rain is hard work. People are lunatics because they're just not used to it. Rain that is. I'm doing my best but it's really difficult and Mr X's shouting down the phone about where I’m meant to be and all the rest of it. But? What's this? I'm stuck in full-on traffic. Full on. PCH. What do you expect?

On the plus side, Mr B phones about a celebration dinner surprise for his wife Ms J. And … shooting on Friday. Yay! I'm going to a shooting range! I've always wanted to indulge my inner Charlie's Angel.

I get another call... Tamara and Gina waiting for the tape. Racing back as best I can. Woosh. I race into the casting office. It's 12.30pm. Bam. I'm good. But then... Of course. I'd forgotten. Mr X's still in NYC and Tamara and I are due to spend the weekend at his house in Zuma so... guess what? I end up driving all the way back to Zuma again. It takes FOREVER! Still, it's nice that he trusts me and is letting us stay there for the weekend. I can't wait to have a break. I'm exhausted all the time and Tam's not had a break either. We get to pretend that we really live the life and chill at a house in Malibu. Bliss. We can't wait. I'm really grateful to Mr X...

I go to Ralph’s at the Malibu colony. Then.. the house. Tam passes out early. She was making out all night before. At 11pm I’m in bed too. Shattered. Shattered. That was over 150 miles in one day just going back and forth doing nowt. That's the LA way. Hurry up. And wait. Hurry up. And wait...

The one where I'm supercheap

2009-05-07T22:55:00.000-07:00

Mother fucker. Someone’s knocked the wing mirror off my car. Some cocking drunken cocking driver has taken the wing mirror off my cocking car. I’ve got my driving test next week. I need my cocking car.

I head to Moorpark but can’t concentrate. … instead it’s a trip to the airport to return the car and go to Super Cheap Cars. On leaving Advantage, thank you full insurance, I call up super cheap cars and ask them to come and pick me up. It’s a moment I think I’ll remember for a while.

I sat outside Advantage, leaning against the wall. Oh for a cigarette. It’s been about forty days now. Maybe 43. Without. Anyway, this car pulls alongside me and this man opens the passenger window.

“Super cheap?”

Er? Not me. I'm not some whore.

"Super cheap?"

Oh. Perhaps he IS talking to me. That's the name of my new car rental company.

Brilliant.

I got in his car.

Naturally, my phone didn’t stop. Mr X needs nine tickets for a Broadway show. A sellout Broadway show at that. I’ve got 13 emails while I’m on the freeway. I’m trying to talk to the company manager, sorting out house seats – I call his writing partner.

“Can this wait til 1pm? I’m just at the airport returning my car…”

I explain about the crash – obviously someone drunk during the night, they probably didn’t even realise they’d clipped my car.

Two minutes later. Mr X phoned, filled with concern about the crash. The co-writer had squealed. He asked if I was okay. I said I was. Nice of him to call, really nice BUT I don’t like talking about personal things with Mr X. I somehow don’t think it’s appropriate. I don’t know why. I’ve heard about other assistants. You’re not meant to have a personal relationship – surely he’s not meant to know about my life and my problems. He just needs his shit sorted. Not thinking about my shit. But, still, he asked if I was okay. Which was nice. But… again, nothing that happens to me is his problem. It’s a weird scenario.

Back in LA. I go home for an hour to do the tickets and send the emails – it’s all go. All go. I’m sorting them all out. Then… off to the library to do some research for Mr X. I’m trying to find books about FBI manhunts. How they do it. The procedural stuff. Everyone’s very helpful. Then. Shit. 2.30pm. I agreed to see a friend at a potential new flat – for him. Near Hollywood and highland.

But first. Pep boys. Mr X’s BMW needs oil. The saga of BMW. I have now phoned them over three days. That’s my life now. Phoning BMW. Finding out if anyone can pick up the car. They can’t. So. It’s me. On my own. I get the oil they recommend and then… off to meet the friend.

As ever, he’s not picking up the phone. I’m waiting in a parking spot. Finally he picks up the phone. I’m off to meet him. At the block. It’s modern. It’s posh. It’s big. I don’t think I can live with him though. But, it’s a nice place. A bit eastern European for my liking – identikit loft conversion places then… shit… I’ve got to meet Mr X’s writing partner – he’s got a script for me to give to Mr X.

I race across LA. The script? Jesus. He made it sound like it was a huge drama and emergency. It’s a script I’ve already sent Mr X when he was in Vegas. Anyway, it’s a good chance to get to know the co-writer. He used to be an assistant writer on a hit TV show. He wrote a script. Mr X liked it… and now he’s off. Doing deals at Paramount and the like. He’s been here five years but it’s finally becoming the Hollywood dream for him. Interesting. But… now I’m late. Again.

Meet up with the Brits at La Cienega Park. There’s a fittie there. Irish. Been here for years. Boxer. Now, god knows. Anyway, we all go out dinner to the King and I. Then, walking back to the car… afterwards. I finally get to talk to Seamus. Slightly smitten. I gave him my number. I never heard from him. Oh well. Nice to meet a hetero. Especially one who’s been in the ring with Evander Holyfield. We chatted for about an hour. And then that was that. Ho hum.

Mr X’s due back tomorrow.

Another day
It’s 9am and I’m in the office. I get to Tam’s office by 11am. Pick up some films for Mr X. Then… then… off to Zuma to deliver it all before he arrives. Ms S is there. She's the housekeeper. We finally meet. I drop the stuff. Then run. I’m looking for oil. I go everywhere. All the garages. No one can help. It’s a nightmare. Eventually, I go to BMW in Santa Monica. I’m a mess. I’m a shrill bitch. I need the oil. No one’s able to help me. I’ve gone a bit mental. I have the eyes of a crazy lady. OIL! OIL! HELP! ME!

We phone up BMW to get the make of his car and the VIM number. I’d got the wrong oil from Pep boys. Argh. I’m a frazzled mess. The older man, Cliff, takes me outside. We go to another BMW model, same as Me X’s and he talks me through how we measure the oil level. It’s intense. I’m horribly grateful to him.

The phone rings. It’s Mr X. He’s shouting. And then he stops. He has to get off the phone. What was that?

An hour later. He calls. He’s shouting down the phone. What the fuck’s going on with his car? Why isn’t his freezer working? Then Ms S gets on the phone. Everyone’s getting antsy about the fact the freezer isn’t working, well, the ice machine, because Ms S hasn’t defrosted it. Not my fault I want to scream (I don't). And then BMW. Why can’t they see his car? What the fuck are they doing? "Not my fault" - I want to scream. I don't.

“When you come over tomorrow, we’re calling BMW and seeing what the fuck’s up with them. This isn’t good enough.”

I’m freaking out. I’ve done nothing wrong but yet it’s all kicking off. I really have been doing my best. Having Ms S AND him shouting at me is all a bit much.

I meet up with a friend and we go to a meeting which is full of gays. I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m upset about being shouted at. I’m upset that I can’t seem to get exactly what he wants. And I’m upset that I’m upset about BMW oil and an ice machine in the fridge. Pathetic. But I’m trying to be professional so I’m horribly affected.

Then… I get home. I forgot that Judy’s got someone coming in tomorrow. I need to move out tomorrow. I need to pack. Sheeeeeeet. I text Mr B. I can move into his tonight. However, I’ll go there tomorrow. I’m a bit of a mess tonight. What with people shouting at me and whatever.

Panic packing and panic texts.

The one where I go to a ....

2009-05-07T22:37:00.000-07:00

Another day. Another junket. Mr X's still in NYC! Yay! So I get to do some freelance work. It’s back to the junket. A 9am start to see 24: Redemption. Two hours to watch Kiefer. I don’t mind. I love 24.

Now… it’s Matt Greoening. Creator of The Simpsons. Again it’s a press conference and a lady has taken over.

I head off to meet Mr B. Him of the no shag. We meet Kira and Mr S. Now there's a story. Mr S had (well, has) cancer of the bollocks but is doing well now. He's being amazingly brave and strong. It's quite a story, but not mine to tell. We head off in Kira’s car and, eventually, head to Beverly Hills for Chinese. We’ve picked up someone new. David. It’s bugging me. Who does he look like? Anyway, we eat. Nice. Then… Kira drives us all back to Mr B's.

Kira’s talking about her family a bit. Sounds complicated. Turns out her brother used to be in Baywatch. Matt Brodie. MATT BRODIE?! You mean… David Charvet?! I’m quiet. I say nothing. I’m cool you see. Super cool. But super sadly excited for some unknown reason.

The next day
Back to the junket in the morning. The Unit. Prison Break. The Sofitel beckons.

By 2pm it’s all over. So… I head home. I’ve got a few hours to kill so I do my emails. No writing. Not to me.

Meeting time. And dinner with the Brits at Vegan Glory. Mr P and Mrs S, two Brits, are incredibly welcoming and I feel like I’m beginning to fit in. And then, come 10pm. .. it’s off to the Standard. My new friend Ms J's there. Her husband Mr B is DJing the rock night at the Standard.

By 1am I’m shattered. I have to go home. My junket starts at 9am the next morning. Still, nice to have a full day and a social life. That’s what I think.

Junket day three
An early junket start. 9am. Time for Bones. David Boreanaz, Emily Deschanel and the creator/producer. Interesting interviews. It’s all good and, by 11am. It’s over.’ve had a call from Tamara, could I come in and help out with a casting. Course! How exciting.

I got to sit on a stool and video a bunch of actors. Interesting to watch. Seeing different actors and what they do. Some rocked. Some didn’t. We only had five in and then… like a flash. It was over. I just got to hold the camera and was terrified of fucking up. There were some people there I've admired for so long and it was nice to see them do their thing through the lens.

It also surprised me that people don’t always turn up for a casting. Odd. Surely people are desperate for work or at least call in to make their apologies. Very foolish. Black marks all round.

I head home and then go over to meet Ms J at her place. I’m trying my first pinkberry – this fat free frozen yoghurt. Yum. I’m hooked. Of course. We head back to hers, chat with Mr B and her and then… it’s around 10.30/11am. Late these days. My phone is buzzing. Time to leave. Time to work. Mr X's arrived home.

The one where a girl does a Masonic dance in Tam's hot tub

2009-05-07T01:33:00.000-07:00

10am. I’m due in Santa Monica. I race down the freeway. I was hoping to meet a friend for lunch but, surprise surprise, he doesn’t pick up the phone. So… I walked on the beach alone and contemplated HOW LUCKY I AM to be here in LA and enjoying relaxing on the beach. I stepped into the sea. Oooh, look at me, I’m so free, I’m walking in the sea. Woo. I got bored. It took me ten minutes. My head was racing. Shouldn’t I be doing something else, shouldn’t I be writing? Shouldn’t I be DOING SOMETHING? I’m not too good at this downtime thing. Never have been. My head just can’t relax. I think I’m going to learn meditation or something because this is meant to be my break and I’m going ‘where to next, what can I do, why am I on my own on the beach….’ Calm down love.

Tamara rings. Her friend Rick is coming to her BBQ party tonight and needs picking up. So… back to the Four Seasons (Ben and Tamsin left this morning) and meet Rick. We’ve not met before but we have friends in common.

We drive over the hill for the half hour drive. His mother’s a QPR fan so I think he’s okay. Anyway, it’s a bonding trip and we chat away. We get to Tam’s. She’s got the nicest place – big pool, nice BBQ – it’s all amazing. Oh. And there's a hot tub. Really nice. I'm into the hot tub thing. Now that works for me.

One of Tam’s flat mates has got us all VIP passes to some concert at the Staples Centre. I’m tempted but… Rick’s in shorts, Tam’s in the hot tub, Gina can’t be bothered and I’m fine just where we are. Sweet boy though. Moved here from Amarillo, Texas. Got a dog. A small one. Called it Johnny Cash. Started walking it. Met people. And got a job as someone’s assistant (aka Bitch). He hated me calling it ‘bitch’. He kept going he’s my friend… he’s my friend. My point? He’s your boss and you’re his bitch… He’ll learn. Still, I’m impressed that Johnny Cash worked out for him.

By 9pm we’re all in the hot tub. Nice. Then… this girl. Ms J. Don’t know her. Don’t want to know her. She’s hammered. She hit that turning point. I want to thump her. Rick wants to thump her. Jeremy wants to bang her. And god knows what Jason thinks. She told us all about bonding with girls at her boarding school and did her Masonic dance she learned at school. It involved some dancing moves while waving her arms around. It was a bit scary. She'd had a few beers.... let's say... nevertheless... it wasn't what I really needed. Great dance though. I feel I learned a lot.

Following the dance, she then dived into the freezing main swimming pool and just lay in the cold water. Insane. It was cold watching her. Time to go. But it was all good fun. Rick and I make our escape. But now. I’m hungry. So we stopped off at Mel’s Diner for a late night munch.

Tam calls. Ms J’s boyfriend had turned up. Turns out I know exactly who he is and he deserves her. He was in the final series of Dream Team, the amazing Sky One TV show that I was employed on as a script writer. The only TV show I've been employed as a script writer on in fact. Indeed. Yes. I have given that man words. He has spoken my lines.

Oh and Ms J's costume. It was like a bad porn film job. White. With a black bit that you can remove, which she did. Always nice to see a girl’s nipples and bush on a first meeting. And she had the panda eyes where the make up had rubbed all over her face as she got crazier and crazier. I felt sorry for Tam, who had to eventually kick her out at 2am. Urgh.

Anyway, Rick and I are safe. We’re the other side of the hill. Away from the nonsense. I take Rick back to the Four Seasons and head on home.

The Following Day...
10am. I’m at Nico’s. He’s not up yet. WAKE UP. And, later, we go off to the Chateau for lunch with Roof, Patrick, Sacha and Andrew. A nice lunch. I like the Chateau – even though they fucked up my order. By now it was 2pm. People had things to do and, unlike last week, it looked like I wasn’t going to be spending the afternoon with Roof. Instead… I had a press junket to go to. Hopefully.... hopefully... Mr X won't ring so I can just sneak in this job. Fingers crossed.

By 3pm I’m ensconced at the Sofitel hotel interviewing the cast of My Name is Earl. So. Junkets. Noam + four foreign journalists sitting in a hotel room in LA. The ‘talent’ comes in with two publicists, at least – the more publicists the more important they are – and we ask questions. Ten minutes per member of the cast. . You fire questions at them and battle with the other journalists to get your moment in the spotlight. That’s how some people might work. Not me. Oh no.

First of all. Get to know the other journalists. They are your friends. Not your enemies. Find out what people need from the talent. We need to work our time. So. Maybe someone works for a magazine like Vogue. They might want to know their view on fashion or trends. Fuck it. Let ‘em go with it. It’s not like I need the interview. However, with the main talent, it’s harder. We all want a slice. Some people are working for TV mags while others need ‘lifestyle’ pieces so have to ask about babies, boyfriends/girlfriends, homelife and the usual stuff you read in a magazine.

Still, it's fun being in a hotel, watching the world go by from the Penthouse. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. Thank God Mr X’s in NYC, my blackberry hardly bleeped for at least seven hours.

Bleep. Spoke to soon. But it’s only a quick request to find out something to do in the morning. Bleep. Ended. Bed. Yay.

The one where I fail my first ever test

2009-05-06T18:23:00.000-07:00

Busy day. I have to take my written driving test. Tedious. But first, the usual 9am trip to Moorpark. Then off to Larchmont.

Naturally… the phone starts beeping. Emails are flooding in. Shit. I have to remember that I must never make plans. Ever. If you're working as someone's assistant. That's it. Your plans, life, everything is on hold. It has to be. You're being paid (however poor the sum) to tend to someone else's needs. That's that. I keep forgetting that as it seems to be a 24/7 existence I'm finding really exhausting...

So... It’s off to Starbucks. Get on line and try my best to deal with the demands. There’s a meeting at the studio, a meeting at Paramount, again… but I’ve got to take my written test for my driving test. So… it’s off ten miles to Culver City to take the test.

So. Yes. The Californian written test. I fail. I got eight wrong. You’re only allowed six wrong. Maximum. They said I could come back later OR the next day. I’m livid. I’ve never failed a test in my life. In my entire life. Not as far as I can remember. I’ve done ‘badly’… ‘badly’ in a ‘I went to St Paul’s’ way (which actually means scraping by rather than getting an A or something) but I’ve never not got a grade. Nope. Thinking. Not even at university. I read through the book again and decide to go back in for another bash twenty minutes later. They gave me the same test. What the fuck? The same test. Which meant that I got 100% second time round well. Der. How stupid am I? So. I passed. Now I have to take the test itself.

Then, whoosh… it’s off to the airport to pick up Judy and Willow and drive them to the airport. They’re off to London for the weekend. Then… hang on. I suddenly remembered that the fitty from the casting is working out at the gym doing Krav Maga with Mr X. Er. I have a delivery that just has to be made… so… I race off to the gym to see Xxxx train (audition). Mmmmmm. Fit. I totally do not have to be at that gym but I need a perk. Now and again. And to see a fit working actor work out isn’t a bad perk.

I leave Mr X and then get on with my day. I’m late for something. Or someone. Always the way. But my life is Mr X's now. He owns me.

However, I managed to pick up Tamsin from the Four Seasons to take her out somewhere. We didn’t get far. Kitson’s was about it. On Robertson. Walking distance. How rubbish were we? We should have done something but, instead, we just hung out and Tamsin played with shoes and watches.

Dropped her back at the hotel and … time to go home at get changed. A friend had been invited to a ‘fashion party’ up Coldwater Canyon, 1210 Coldwater Canyon. Someone’s house. Sounded nice. Sounded posh.

I went home. Put on a dress. Put on make up. Wore heels. You know. Made an effort. There’s a photographer there. She didn’t take my picture. I was excited to see Melissa George leaving as I arrived. I wanted to tell her that I was a bit Shane and Angel fan in Home and Away. That I used to try and copy her Angel hair with her plaits and all. Sigh. I did love her. Anyway, she was leaving. I got to turn up with Jaime Murray who swanned in. I mean really swanned in.

Victoria Hervey was there. This is the fifth time I’ve seen the madam. Why the long face? And she still doesn’t ever say hello.

I met a strange man. Nice. Architect. Normal. Wife at home having a horrific pregnancy. He shared a lot. He also started bobbing his head along to the music and dancing while talking and asked me why other people don’t do that at parties… Why? Because it’s fucking annoying that’s why. Seriously. Try talking to someone when they’re bobbing their head. There wasn’t a dance floor. It wasn’t like that at all. It was just background music and he’s bobbing.

The food table was untouched, obviously. Being a fashion party and all. I hit the dips. And then felt alone. Not even the men were eating. Oh. There was some English guy called Alex. A director I think. He joined me at the noshing table and we picked our way around. We were alone. Maybe Americans don't eat at parties. Maybe models never eat. Maybe this is why I am not tiny.

Anyway, the house. Mid century American modern. Each item of furniture probably cost my year’s salary. People were just being so, well, dull. I thought I’d hate myself after attending but, you know, I felt so validated as a person. Everyone in that room was having a bad time. I really think they were. So full of SHITE.

This guy started talking to me… trying to tell me about who had photographed the house. He was being horribly pretentious. I was, in retrospect, perhaps a bit rude but it amused another couple who were at the party - Ms J and Mr B.

We hit it off. Mr B was from Brixton and in some band. I’m so shit with music. But, that’s irrelevant. The main point is that she was fun, got my humour and while my friend started talking to Mr B, we got into conversation and exchanged numbers.

They left soon after, but Ms J and I made plans to meet up over the weekend while I prowled around the party for a bit.

Before long, I saw someone I knew. Laura, who used to work at a major film company in the UK. She was there with some model, I think, called Ms M. Ms M was blank behind the eyes and no one really wanted to talk to me… they were all waiting for Laura’s business partner, Mr Houston. It was like the world was revolving around him. My friend and I decided to leave… but then came the announcement. The neighbour across the road was celebrating his daughter’s 17th birthday and had an in and out truck parked outside and was offering burgers.

I’ve never seen fashion people move to quickly and look so, well, unfashionable as the ketchup from the burgers dribbled down their cheeks. My friend and I started talking to Mr In and Out. He’s a theme park designer. He has a couple of theme parks he designed opening up in China. It’s a strange old world.

The one where I get to see a casting session

2009-05-06T18:17:00.000-07:00

Up at 4am as usual. The estate agents are still kicking off.

Fuck’s sake.

Is anyone managing my flat right now? I’m finding this all hard to deal with. Snotty emails a’plenty.

11am. Head off to see JFS. He’s just finishing directing his first feature and is leaving for London today. I get there around 12pm. I got lost. It’s exciting. His life is taking off and it’s nice to see a face from home. I’ve seen his plays at Guildford, as well as him performing up at Edinburgh in Dutch Elm. He’s this week’s Hollywood story having just sold a huge pitch to Sony with him writing and directing. He’s a jammy git, but I feel genuinely happy for him. He’s off to London at 3pm so needs to pack so I head off to the office for an hour.

3pm. I’m late. I’m stuck in traffic. Right now xxxx xxxxxxx is in the casting rooms at Tam’s office. I park. And run in. I’m going to my first casting today to see how it’s done.

3.15pm. Thank fuck. They’re fifteen minutes behind. I’m now in the room with Mr X, Tam's boss, Tamara, Max (who’s reading) and Sarah (who’s reading). And in comes xxxx. He does his thing and… you know what? He’s good. I liked him. I want him to get the part. He did a great job. I love this city!

Castings: these are when actors come in to read for films. If the writer/director’s there it means that they’re pretty far up the tree. It means they’re nearly there. xxx got quite emotional but it was fascinating to watch Mr X actually direct and do his thing and see the actor respond. Not coming from that world I liked seeing how these things are done. I think he thought he’d blown it, the actor that is. He really hadn’t. I looked over at Tam. The expression in our eyes was ‘fuck. He was good.’ And mine was also ‘and fuck. He is hot.’ But that’s besides the point. I wanted to chase after him going ‘you were great’ but, again, not my job.

XXX left and the moment the door shut, we’re all talking about him. We’re not ripping him apart. We all agree, he did a great job, he wants it, he likes it, he deserves a shot at this. And, he's a nice guy.

I gave Mr X his Van Morrison tickets and off he went, leaving me and team Randi. Too tired to do anything, I was meant to see a friend, but I headed off out for dinner with Randi, Gina and Tam. Randi then picked up the tab. Which was ever so nice of her. I probably should send her some flowers… on Mr X’s account?!

Still, it was fascinating to see a casting at work. I'd never get this chance back home - just seeing how things are put together and what's what. It's very different from London. Very different indeed. I'm feeling horribly lucky (and pleasantly full).

The one where I get recognised...

2009-05-05T18:22:00.000-07:00

Breakfast with Judy, Willow and Willow’s friend Olivia. The dog (Arrow) and the Cat (Hodge) are passed out in Willow's bedroom - which is good. I don't have to walk Arrow. Good. Then, at 9.50am, Rufus turns up. We’re off to Sasha’s house. But where is Sasha’s house? Back to Rufus’s to get the address. Doh.

We drive up there and, hurrah, Nico’s there. Which was nice, I've not seen him much since arriving in LA, so all go out for a coffee on Laurel afterwards with another girl Emma. I knew Emma’s flatmate Katie. Katie killed herself the week before I came out by throwing herself off an 80ft roof. Horrific. Utterly horrific. I remember her from my last time out in LA... Despite all this, Emma seems incredibly together. I don’t know if I could be.

After the coffee, Emma’s off to look at a home, Nico leaves and Mr R and I finish up. Thing is. I’m hungry. Again. So we head to the Chateau for lunch. Now here’s where I had my Hollywood moment. Finally. I’ve dreamed of this day! As we were walking through the garden, there was a large table of 12 people and two of them went ‘Noam’! It was Justin and Kirsten – the woman I need to meet to sort out the book deal. Meanwhile, Mr R, of course, bumped into some friends. And, finally, we settled into lunch. Which was delicious. A couple came over to say hello to Mr R. It was the man who played Derek in Sunset Beach. How excited was I? Very. And his wife invited me over to dinner when they get back from Australia. I want to tell him that I’ve watched every episode of Sunset Beach. Every episode. But I manage not to and get excited about Sunset Beach. I was. However. I might have been the show's only fan. Anything Aaron Spelling created was fine by me... Sunset Beach. Sigh.

They’re all talking about Claire’s party. Do I know Claire? I don’t know. Do I? "She’s English". "Oh and she had a party last night as she’s gone away". I should know Claire. "Claire’s lovely." That's the talk for about five minutes. Eventually I give in. Who the fuck is Claire? Oh. It’s Claire Forlani and her husband Dougray Scott. Oh! Right. yes. Of course I know Claire. Not. I mean I've seen her on screen but I don't KNOW her. Jesus. But her husband. I’ve actually met him. He lives in Hammersmith and I’ve chatted to him about QPR. That’s about all I can add to the conversation. "Oh you must meet Claire." Well. Stranger things have happened. Maybe Claire and I will be bezzie mates. But. Today. I don’t think so. Perhaps when I write a movie and Claire wants to be in it. Sigh. Hollywood.

Nothing in Mr X’s schedule today. But I still go to the office. As ever. Work. Blah. Work. Blah. Make appointments. Blah. Double check appointments. Triple check appointments. Done.

I pop home and then it’s off to the Four Seasons to meet Tamsin and Ben. They’re over here on holiday, well, Ben’s working. We head to the restaurant for a meal. It’s horribly stagnant. We feel a bit, well, out of place and decide we’d be happier in the hotel room with room service but they’ve brought us bread and we’ve already demolished it and ruined the table cloth (Ben). We eat. Chat. And then head up to the room. Ben’s talking about Mickey Rourke's film The Wrestler.

We get into the lift. Wouldn't you know it? Mickey Rourke, a horrible little dog and a woman all get into the lift with us. We stop talking and exchange glances – it’s Mickey fucking Rourke! Mickey Rourke! I turn to Tamsin. ‘Oooh, you farted’. Tam’s mortified. But Mickey’s too wrapped up into his little dog and horrible woman and pays us no attention at all. Which is odd, as Tamsin's stunning.

After a gossip upstairs in the room, Ben goes to bed and then I head home. Tired. Again. At least there were no Mr X dramas today. A Mr X-free day! Result! I love Hollywood

The one where Noam goes to Paramount

2009-05-04T07:29:00.000-07:00

I’m up at 3am again. Panicking.

By 7.30am I started to drive over to Moorpark. Beep. Beep. The blackberry… can I go over to the Paramount lot and meet Mr X to sort out his Bluetooth in his car… So I headed to Lulu’s café, ordered an omelette and rang my mother to catch up with her. I was excited about going to Paramount. I emailed Xxxxxx, the assistant at Paramount, to put me on the list. A studio. Yay. I got there half an hour early. I’m not on the list. Eek. This is not good. The Paramount assistant isn't there either. This is not good.

Then. Mr X's co-writer on this project, turns up… he’s not on the list either. Great. I go into power mode. Sorted. Mr X, thankfully, is running late, which gives me a chance to make sure everything's okay for his arrival. You can't fuck up in Hollywood. You just can't. Even if it's not your fault it's your fault - that's the law. The law in Hollywood anyway.

After I got in, I decided to take a few pictures. As you do. Before I headed to the office where Mr X was having his meeting. The assistant was frosty. She removed me from the reception area as I looked untidy. I didn't look so bad. But... her boss didn't know who I was thus I presented a problem. They put me in a side room... out of sight so out of mind. Though I did start chatting to an intern, who was photocopying in the room next to me. Then. Mr X arrived, he graciously introduced me to Mr Paramount with a really generous intro before giving me the keys to his car and I was off...

While on the lot I bumped into the office intern. He had a cart. A cart! Like a golf buggy so he drove me around. I loved it! Couldn’t remember his name and felt bad when he said ‘bye Noam’ after he dropped me off. He’ll go far. I, on the other hand? God knows.

I fixed the car - which I was really proud of. I mean. Bluetooth. Cars. Phones. Technology. Seriously. This wasn't easy stuff. I was configuring things on a car that didn't even need a key to start it. I don't mean to sound like a plum, but, honestly, this kind of thing is usually beyond me. I returned the key to the uppity assistant and walked back round the lot. It wasn't easy. I have to say.

After leaving the lot, grudgingly, I raced back to Culver City to the office to sort out more stuff. Meetings, double checking meetings but the mood outside. It was one of … weirdness.

I'm writing this about November... and... back in November in LA it was voting day. One of the most historic days, probably, of the Century so far in America... People kept coming up to me on the street going ‘have you voted… it’s close… you gotta vote…’ I kept saying ‘but I’m English’.

The most political things I’ve ever done in my life are as follows a) voted in the UK elections in some of the most Tory boroughs ever. Even though what's the point? b) dragged on marches from ages 7-12 to go to the Soviet embassies to protest about them not letting Jews out of the country: ‘one two three four, open up the iron door. Five six seven eight let the people emigrate’. C) and most recently? When seeing gays holding up their ‘honk if you’re against prop eight’ signs… I’ve honked. I felt wonderfully involved. Look at me. I’m in politics now. I honked my horn. That’s it. So… to have this election fever? I couldn’t get involved. I feel bad. But I’ve not been here long enough. It's been two weeks. If that. Brown vs Cameron. That I get. That I know. This? I know NOTHING. Sorry. I feel horribly ignorant. I'm too wrapped in my own LA bubble right now that I don't even know where I am...

I went to Larchmont to meet Justin and his girlfriend. Kirsten. She wants me to co-write her book. Money up front. Easy prospect. I’m tempted. Nice to see Justin again, we’ve been playing scrabulous and word scraper now on a daily basis since I met him last March. This was probably the second or third time we’ve met, first time away from others, but having spent months im’ing I feel I know him. And he’s trying to give me a friendly kick up the arse with my career. He also offered me work as a script writer on a reality show. All good. Amazing even.

I raced back across Hollywood as I had a meeting at 8pm. And then, a friend found me and tried to drag me to the Abbey where he was meeting his friend Ivan. It was all go in the Abbey. Big gay bar. Lots of rainbow flags. Squealing. Excitement. Cheers. I was too tired.

Tam rang. Her party was a bit shit. She didn’t know anyone so was heading up to her friend Ms L’s. I joined her. Scraped up the car in the car park, ouch, and headed up into the hills to visit Lena, her parents, a hetero or two, and some gays. As it was all, mainly, Brits, it was quite a relief. Love Ms L’s parents. I spoke to John, her dad, about Stan Ternant and Peter Jackson… He’s from Huddersfield. I’ve been there. Seen the Terriers. That's Huddersfield FC. Played with the dogs and realised, I’m shattered. Really shattered and I’ve got to drive home. People are honking their horns all over West Hollywood. I’m falling asleep at the wheel.

Wednesday November 5th

Bonfire night. No fireworks or Guys in LA. They don’t have a clue. I love Bonfire Night. Head up to Moor Park at 9am and see Dan O’Meara. A friend. Nice to see him, we talk about his film, his prospects, his life and a bit of my life, my prospects and the world at large. A text from JFS, he’s moving back to the UK next week but we’re meeting for coffee in Los Feliz on Friday. It’ll be nice to see someone from home and he’s doing so well out here. Still shattered.

While talking to Dan, my crackberry goes off. ‘Sorry the meeting’s cancelled today, are we meeting next Monday at 11am?’ WTF? I don’t know the name but I know the meeting. It starts in 50 minutes and Mr X will already be on the road. I call ‘young jim’ – that’s seriously his name.
Oops. He made a mistake. Wanker. Utter wanker. I call someone else to double check, after all, I’d confirmed this meeting the day before. ‘He’s new. I’m sorry. He didn’t know’. Two minutes later. ‘beep beep’. He’s apologising. Cross communication. I’ll fucking say. I was about to get the chop there for his error.

Talking to Dan again when ‘ring ring’… It’s Mr X. He wants to know who someone is. Thank god for the Crackberry. I give a name and company. Dan’s impressed. I’ve been here two weeks and I’m multitasking with a crackberry sounding all efficient. It’s frightening though, the fear of not wanted to fuck up. I’m back in ‘Devil Wears Prada’ fears.

Off to the office again. Culver City awaits. My back, however, is slipping away. Thank fuck for Liz and Lisa’s birthday present. I book a massage tomorrow. Can’t wait. Cannot wait.

And then, the madness, the crackberry. Meetings. Confirmations. Texting someone only known as by a nickname who doesn't have an email address - just a phone.

Then… something nice. Mr X asks me about a singer. I check him out. I’m asked my opinion. We agree. He tells me his idea. I agree. It could work. I send Mr X the links to the singer’s myspace page and videos. Mr X likes him. I like him. Mr X asks me to set up a meeting with him.

I feel so powerful. Look at me. I google, use imdbpro.com and sure enough, within ten minutes I’m Mr X's right hand woman setting up a meeting. I love these bits of the job. Where I feel I might be changing someone’s life. Or setting up some kind of deal. I really enjoy it. It just seems exciting.

Then I make the call. They tell me they’ll return.

I send an email:

Hi xxxxxx,

Re the message I left earlier this afternoon, I'm writing on behalf of director Mr X (insert names of film here).

"Mr X would like to set up a meeting with yourself and your client xxxxxx to discuss an idea for a film project that would involve xxxxx and his music.

Please contact me on xxx xxx xxxx so we can put something together."

Two minutes later. It’s the man.

Ten minutes later. The man and I are friends. The man and Mr X are meeting up in Santa Monica before his big studio meeting. And I feel I rock. I feel like I’m at the beginning of a project that might run. And that’s what I came here for. And that’s why I’m enjoying my job. Today.

I leave the office and head over to Western and Lemon Grove to meet Jolyon. He’s a friend of rock Dave – who painted my flat in London and redid my bathrooms. Anyway, Jolyon’s a DJ.

I got lost in Lemon Grove. I went up the wrong street. Apparently I’m in some kind of crack alley but I didn’t know, so ended up asking some crack-smoking local for directions. He has no idea where he is. Let alone me. I call Jolyon for the fifth time in ten minutes.

I’m on the wrong side of Western. The wrong Lemon Grove. The wrong everything.

We eventually head off to the 101 café. And then, by 10pm, he has to leave, he’s working at midnight doing his DJ thing and, meanwhile, I’m shattered. Still, nice to meet someone new.

Shattered I head off to bed.

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

2009-05-04T02:02:00.000-07:00

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.

The one where I end up paying for some girl...

2009-05-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

Another morning in LA. A bit grey today. I’m due to meet my friend Roof at 11.45 and I don’t know what time it is anymore as every clock of mine is giving a different time. I get to our meeting early. Far too early. But he’s there. I can’t tell you how nice it is to see a familiar face from home. Especially a good-looking face from home.

He has to run off as he’s taking his brother to the airport. We arrange to meet later. Maybe but considering his plans I don’t think it’s going to happen. Still, briefly, it was nice to see someone I know from home. I feel a bit homesick today actually.

1.30pm. Lunch with some friends at ‘The Grove’. Now this is where I get pissed off. It’s my own fault. I was a pussy. So. We’re having a lovely lunch. One of LA’s most handsome boys, Chris. He is just beautiful. And then another guy and some girl I didn’t know. We ate. I’m being really frugal with money at the moment – I have none – so ordered lightly.

The bill came. ‘Hey, I’ll pay for you…’ said the other guy to the girl. The check/bill came and the other guys said "put $27 on mine" with all the authority in the world as he smiled at the girl. Chris and I looked at each other and said we’d split the rest as he had a salad to my omlette. Our bills came = we were paying $29. What? Huh? How could that be? Oh… because the other guy wasn’t paying for the girl. We were. I had no intention of paying for her but being a pussy I didn’t say anything. I was livid. And he got the credit for paying for her lunch. I should have said something. So, really, it’s all my fault. BUT I have learned a lesson. When going for lunch with ‘friends’, I’m going to get my bill separately and pay for what I’ve had. End of.

3pm. A BBQ at Anoushka’s house. She wasn’t there. Her flat mate George was. I met some nice people. One gay (guy), I think he was gay, Jason from New Zealand, we knew some people in common as he used to be a concierge back in London at the Sanderson. Anyway… he’s hooking me up with a gay who’s a PA to some director on the Paramount lot. I could do with tips.

I then bumped into another friend, Diane, who I’d met on a panel trip to a prison last time I was here in March. She’s very sweet. Caring. It’s nice to meet some caring people out here as I’m really feeling lonely today despite the fact it’s been busy busy busy.

7pm. Off to dinner with Mr B. He of the ‘ravaging’ from day one. Looks like Giovanni Ribisi, sounds like GR and women flock to him. The warning signals are going off in my head. We’ll be friends. I think. Nothing more. ‘Danger. Danger.’ That’s what my instincts saying. Shame. But there we go. He’s heterosexual as well. We have dinner at Toast and join this guy Mr L (as well as some one called Ashton – not him – a girl called Kira – not her and someone called Amy). Mr L… I was sadly excited to find out (he told me) that he was in the pilot of Beverly Hills 90210. That alone is enough for me. I love that show. Anyone who knows me knows I’m an Aaron Spelling freak. Surely? But, the more I find out about Mr L, the glow of 90210 begins to wane. He’s 38. Good. He’s an actor. Very bad. Bye bye Mr L.

9.30pm. Back to Mr B’s. I’d left my car there. I have an invite to go in to his.

10.30pm. Home. Shagged Mr B. Course I didn’t. Promise. I got in my car and drove home. And started my emails. Mr CAA’s glasses are now in my home. So I emailed his assistant at CAA… They’re still freaking out about these damn glasses, more castings for Mr X's film. More dramas. More airmiles and… things in London are falling apart. The tenants in Warwick road are causing a fuss about everything and I have no more money to sort this. I’m so horribly depressed. It’s just money though. I wish I had it to be depressed about. I really must remember to breathe.

I go to bed.

3.30am. My blackberry is buzzing non-stop with emails. The estate agent is on the warpath. I’m fucked. Horribly fucked.

The one where I don't go to a frat party

2009-05-03T09:08:00.000-07:00

I had an appointment in the morning with a Polish waxing lady. It was painful. Horribly painful. ‘You’re too tense… it’ll hurt more…’ and it bloody did. Aargh.

Then… off to Tam’s place. She’s moving out of her friend’s place. A sad day. We’re packing up, I put all the stuff in the car and say goodbye to the hot tub and the tivo I’d yet to take advantage of…

Lunch at Marmalade, where Tam's mate works. Amazing food. And then… Tam's new place but we stopped off in Target. Sheets to buy. Amazingly cheap. I’ve always wanted to furnish a place in the US or have an excuse to spend money in household stores in America and now I can! Even though I’ve no money but you get the drift. American stores just hold a fascination for me. Perhaps because the pound was always stronger than the dollar (not the case now, boo hoo) but also because their stuff seems more innovative. Leave me in Bed Bath and Beyond and that's me out for hours just looking at the utensils.

By now… it’s 3.50pm. I’m due at Zuma at 5pm. All 36 miles away from where we are so I head off to see what Mr X’s got in store.

It’s grim weather (for LA). Slightly gray skies, rain and people are so affected. Compared to home it’s nothing. Nothing. But… tomorrow’s BBQ at Matthew Rhys’s has been cancelled due to the weather. A shame. I wanted to meet the man behind the legend. I’ve heard he’s just incredibly sexy in the flesh, just amazing. I wanted to see for myself. Still, I have to try and remember that I’m not on holiday. I live here. I’ve got time to meet the people I’m meant to be meeting.

4.30pm. I’m at Mr X’s. No sign of him. One of his buff mates is there (yay) but he’s neck deep in ‘Michael Collins’ (boo). No sign of Mr X. 5.30pm. Mr X arrives… I’m curious, why pull me out here on a Saturday? I load some music onto his blackberry for him, go through a few emails, pick up some big wig agent’s glasses (they’ll send a messenger for them), put pictures from his blackberry onto his computer and deliver a script his brother wanted him to read. Oh.... the agent's glasses. BIG drama. I've been getting daily phonecalls from the agent's assistant. Panicking. He has to have those glasses. Has to. And I know that every day the big shot agent has been going to the assistant: "If you don't get my glasses back you're fired". That's how it works. A panic industry. Induce fear. Fear gets people motivated. Apparently. Survival of the fittest and the thickest skin. However, it just makes me fuck up. Anyway. I've got the glasses. Some agent's assistant at CAA is about to fall in love with me.

8.15pm. I’ve been circling around the Ventura/Sherman Oaks area for 20 minutes trying to find Tam’s house. The fucking GPS has sent me to the wrong place. There are three Allott Avenues it seems. I’m going crazy. I arrive and we’re getting ready to go out. But her friend is late.

There are three parties tonight. A) One in Woodland Hills (back in the direction of Zuma). Sounds like a big frat party, but fun. Tam’s outfit looks incredible. Bodice and all. But the party's back another 15 miles. We'd need to leave now. B) Chris Hart’s assistant. This poor cow doesn’t even have a name. She’s (or even he) is just known as Chris Hart’s assistant. He’s an agent at CAA. About 300 people have been invited. It’s in Brentwood. I feel bad going to a party of someone who doesn’t even have a name. However. That's what people do. I don't even want to know Chris Hart... but this party is meant to be big. Deep down, by now, I don't really care. C) Benicio Del Toro’s party. Eileen sent a text, they’re going to his party. I’ve been told he has a surprisingly small penis. I don’t know why this upsets me. But it does. This is stuff I shouldn't know. And... I've not seen it so perhaps it's just one of those urban myths. I hope so. It would be nice to find out... So. These are the choices. Normal. Hollywood wank or Hollywood wankee.

It’s not 10pm. Amy’s really late. I’m really shattered. Amy turns up in her cutesy airhostess outfit, Tam’s wearing a corset and a tutu and I’m in jeans and a t-shirt. I decide to go home. I just can’t be bothered anymore. Hollywood will be there another day. I'm exhausted. I know that in Hollywood, 10pm is not late to head to a party… but it is these days for me. I get tired. I like getting up in the morning and looking at the sun.

10.30pm. Andy NL sends a text. He’s in a bar, firefly, on Ventura. Too late. I’m already on the 101 coming up to Highland. 10.33pm. Eileen’s at the Benicio party. It’s at the Social. I don’t even know where that is. I remember Tam telling me it’s a bit cunt soupy. I point out I’m in jeans and a t-shirt. Eileen recommends going home to change but… I know… the moment I get in… that’s it. I’m on the bed. And sure enough it proved to be.

I’m home. I’m looking after myself. I know the psychic (yes I saw a psychic, she told me that LA was the place for me and the next day I got the job off from Mr X so it all looked like it was meant to be) told me to ‘get out there’ to meet my husband but not tonight.

The one where I race to Zuma...

2009-05-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

Piss. The pilot light man’s coming to the house in Zuma. I’ve got a meeting at 9am beforehand. And then… well… drive like the wind. I get there. The gas man’s there. So are Mr X's friends. The ‘How you doin?’ continues. They invite me to the cinema with them. I’m tempted. But I think it’s inappropriate.

One of them's in the pool. ‘Hey sweetie, can you check the heating’s on?’ I plod over and glance over into the pool. I think... yep... he’s stark bollock naked. I’m not complaining. But.... But. You know. Er. Well. I keep it together. “It’s on” I reply as I slink away back inside.

The sagas are ongoing... and meetings need to be finalised: the Paramount pitch and the meeting about the music and the meeting about the publicity. Meanwhile.. there’s a piece in Variety about Mr X and Mr A-Lister doing a project together. It’s not happening until next year. No one reads that and instead the phones in the production office are going a bit crazy – people offering themselves up for work. Bog off. But I can’t say that. It’s all mental here. People are desperate and I realise how lucky I am to have a job within the industry with a guy who, thus far, isn’t a dick.

Mr X's friends leave and I decide to go for a dip. Do I dare a skinny dip? I do. But it’s fucking cold so it was more a ‘oooh oooh oooh – too cold’ up to my waist. I dry off and ring Tam and boast about being in the pool while she's in the office.

There's a trampoline in the garden too. I decide to jump and see if I can spot Pierce Brosnan next door. I don't. But the trampoline's looking a bit scared. And fragile. I don't want to destroy it. Eeeeek. Now that would be a humiliating reason to get fired.

I leave Zuma. And it’s back to the production office. Picking up some sushi for Ms J, who works here. The blackberry’s off again. I’m having fun with the head of press for one of the major studios. It’s all good banter. And she appears to have a sense of humour.

Then, it’s more emails between me and the universe about Mr X’s film – I know assistants are busy but people aren’t giving me all the information I need so it’s weird. I'm chasing my tail the entire time.

Finally, the day’s over. Tam and I do Coreyoke. Well. Tam watched. Coreyoke – started by Corey Haim and Corey Feldman. They weren’t there tonight. But the band dress up as the Corey’s and you sing with a live band. ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’. That’s what I did. But the band is loud. I’m drowned out.

Tam tries to eyefuck the doorman. The bar’s called Happy Endings. I’m not sure if we’re in a gay bar or not. The boys are young. And hot. But young.

It’s been over two weeks without a cigarette. I’m sorely tempted. I leave for constant fag breaks with Tam. Just breathing in the smoke. I miss them. I do.

11.30pm. Home.

12.30am. Ping. Mr X’s in Rome still. Just getting back from the hotel. The email’s begin again. Ping. Ping. Ping. Eventually he tells me to go to bed. I don’t want to tell him I’m in the bath.

The following day

Weird day. More emails. More assistants to schmooze.

Then... it's off to one of the major studios to get myself set up with the financial team. I drive into their carpark. It's immense. Everything's big here. It's all about the industry. I’m still not sure how legal I am… I have a job now and they’re paying me directly as it’s linked to the film. I’m introduced to the team. I sort out money. It’s something I really need.

I’ve got mountains of press to print out. The printer’s weird. Everything’s weird. All the press is bleeding off the page. There’s a lot of shit. I miss home today. But... I love driving around still. I’m gaining weight though. That whole giving up smoking thing is bringing on the weight and I thought I’d lose a few pounds. I’m not. Grrrr. Gotta get that gut under control.

No sign, again, of celebrity sightings on the streets. Nada. I shouted at Pierce Brosnan’s dog yesterday though. Does that count? Otherwise, that’s it.

I went to meet a friend at this awful place. I hated it. We arranged to have dinner at Mel’s 24 hour diner. I got there. HE wasn’t there. I ordered. And phoned him. He was at the other diner. I ate alone and never heard from him again. I keep phoning. Nothing. My food arrives. Nothing. Turns out he was stopped by the police for a faulty breaklight on his way to meet me. I eat alone. A couple opposite me are face fucking. I leave.

Another day down in H-Wood.

The one where I officially start

2009-05-02T09:02:00.000-07:00

So. Day one - that I officially start my job anyway. It’s weird. I’m here. I've been here five days. I'm finding my feet. Hitting the ground running. I have blisters. Literally. I need to by some trainers. And flip flops.

I’ve met my boss once and right now he’s in Rome. So, I'm here. Answering the phone, making appointments, trying to get a company credit card (bring it on) and working out what my job is.

It appears to be spending time setting up meetings and then dealing with the incompetence of others – can’t people tell me from the fucking off just WHO is going to be at these meetings, and exactly WHERE they’re going to be. It’s hardly rocket science. But people are stupid. Fick. Proper fick. But they like my accent, so that's cool.

The main agency that everyone bows down to is CAA. I’m told they have their own zipcode they’re so flash. Well. I call them on a daily basis. I have no idea who’s who, what’s going on, who the ‘players’ are… apparently I need to learn that. I’m finding it all a joke. It’s quiet today. The film opened and got beaten by Beverly Hills Chihuahua. So. One minute, literally, you’re the hot stuff in Hollywood and the next minute everyone’s jumping on the ‘let’s slate the film’ bandwagon. Still, he’s in Rome right now doing press so he doesn’t have to see it. I feel bad though, like the kiss of death. it was all going so well before I arrived?! Hopefully it'll pick up.

My computer has a virus. It’s horribly sick. I got it from Tam. So… I head to Tam's office and wait two hours while it’s repaired with the virus checker. The blackberry’s peeping all the while. Meanwhile, they’re doing their shit – Tam and I watch the last episode of Plus One. I miss home a lot now. Ingrid was fab and I even laughed out loud in places. I’m terribly proud of my friends. They’ve done a good job.

The other thing about America is the whole banking system. I have no 'credit history' so getting credit cards and banking stuff is hard. Everything's much harder than I thought. I order a credit card. They’ll only give me $300 credit. RUBBISH. And that's because I have no credit history here. Still. Jesus. $300?!? I then go to the post office. These are things I just don't know how to do over here, I feel like a retard.

I’m due at Zuma at 4pm to meet the landlord of Mr X’s house. Zuma is not nearby. Zuma is about 33 miles away. I know. That's nothing in England. NOTHING. But here? It's a lifetime away.

Zuma is nice. Stunning. But my dangerous speedy driving will get me into trouble one of these days. I try star spotting while in the car – especially at lights. I don’t think I’ve really seen anyone of note. I saw more people on Old Compton Street then I do here.

Anyway… I get to the house early. 3pm. There’s someone in the house. Stuff everywhere. Guy stuff. Then… these two ripped men appear out of nowhere. Mr X’s mates from the East Coast. Big. Buff. And proper ‘how you doin’ mentality. They’ve just come off the beach and, well it’s been a while, I probably gawped a bit. Okay. A lot. They looked buff and healthy. You don't get men like that in Shepherds Bush.

We chat. Or perhaps they chat and I flirt. I don’t know. Perhaps I flirted a lot.

The housekeeper turned up and showed me the pilot light, the broiler, the heater, the chimney and the ice machine. The things I’m learning. This is Hollywood life. She goes and I realise I’m fucked getting home. Leave now and I’ll be stuck in traffic for three hours so I’ve got to stay, well, I don’t have to, I choose to.

The boys – Frankie and Jimmy (of course) – are busy on their laptops discussing some email or another while I watch the sunset over Zuma. It couldn’t be any more perfect.

Now… it’s midnight in Rome. Mr X’s obviously just finished dinner and the emails come flying in on the blackberry. He wants printouts of the press cuttings, details of a film he’s heard about, his mileage account checked, emails to respond to from his friends and that’s just the start. Normal stuff for the job...

Something’s going on but he won’t tell me what. I check my blackberry again. Oooh. Minnie Driver’s email. And Jude Law. I need some new people to hang out with. LA can be lonely and I see from some magazine pictures at a party that Minnie’s in town. I decide against cold emailing her. I don’t think that would be cool right now.

Instead I’m emailing his publicist, him, the new york publicist and his agent’s office. Who, of course, are in the process of changing. That’s the thing about CAA, and LA in general, as far as I can tell, no one lasts long. I really thought I might have a chance getting to know one of them but no… I’m going to go in there next week. I wanna see this bad boy. CAA. How intimidating can it be?

Meanwhile, there’s my life going on in London. I’m still trying to rent the flat out. I think there are tenants BUT they want a fucking sofa. And a coffee table. I’m trying to buy one. On line. I buy one. It’s ordered. It’s amazing. BUT will take four weeks to arrive so the agency says no and picks one that costs £350. WTF? And the coffee table. It’s all a disaster. Yet more money? And the electrical testing? And the phone bill? And everything. I’m using my blackberry while on the freeway trying to sort my shit out. They need signed documents. I’m emailing them, no good, I’m faxing them, they’re not getting them. It seems like the world is incompetent. I’m doing my best here. I don't have a printer. The faxes aren't getting through. Everyone's expecting me to be on top of the situation and I'm not. It's thousands of miles and hours away and aaaargh.

I see online that QPR won tonight and it was snowing in London. I got sun burn. I know where I’d rather be. I then hear we played really well. A slight twinge. Still. Fuck it. I’m in LA. (See the picture of some of my QPR boys...)

I get a call. Do I want to write a book? Ghosting a biography for a friend’s book out here. It’d be a couple of grand up front immediately. I’m not sure. It’s not really my dream. Not today anyway. And also write for a new reality TV show that I'm not sure about. I'm not sure I 'get it'. It’s all opening up here but I’m just not sure. Or perhaps I'm just a bit scared of success...

I’m happy when I get to bed. But. What’s this? Peep peep. It’s 8am in Rome. Mr X’s up. A brief email exchange and then bed. Another day done.

The one where I meet Mr X for the first time

2009-05-01T11:36:00.000-07:00

Day two - it brought more of the same. The paramount pitch, I need a credit card on his account so I had to order that, and the one line emails were flying in from Mr X. Book tickets for this, email the costumer designer from that, call this guy at CAA and give them my apologies that I can't make the screening, set up a meeting in early November with this cinematographer, set up a meeting with that guy at CAA and will my blackberry work in Europe? It's exciting. Really exciting. I'm in LA. I'm living the dream. This is why I'd moved over...

All this and I'd STILL not met him. BUT I knew his social security number, date of birth, daughter's birthday and all the ins and outs of his relationships. I mean everything. These are things I needed to know. I'm in charge of his schedule, his life... everything.

I headed off to get my nails done. They looked like shit. No one has bad nails here. No one. I'm there being buffed when I see this woman having hers done. I know her. I know I do. Fuck me if it isn't Dawn Porter, who I met at one of Liz's birthdays two years ago. She lives here now. We exchanged numbers as she lives round the corner from me. Small world.

3pm. I'm off to his production office to meet one of his producers. Three hours (and one parking ticket later) I'm more filled in. Knackered. But more filled in.

6pm. I've got fifteen minutes to meet Tamara and fly up to the Arclight to see a screening of Mr X's - we're due to meet. I'm sort of excited but I find it weird. Ms V had put the fear of god into me. Ms J, who worked for his brother, had reassured me. But I realised. This is real life. I'm a walking Entourage episode. I really am.

At the cinema, and Tam's there with Gina and friends.

No tickets for Tam and co though. God knows where they were. Warners were meant to leave them for them and we had five minutes... I came into my own. I got my tickets and demanded to see the event co-ordinator of the screening. "Hi. I'm Mr X's PA. I've got five people from Warner's who need walking through. Their tickets aren't there and the event's due to start. I need them in now." and then did the obligatory ‘help me help me’ look. It worked. I felt like a rockstar as we all walked through. I really did.

The film's long. And then there was a Q&A. I'm meeting my boss while he's doing a Q&A. Weird. I've been working for him for two days and I've still not met him. We had to wait. And wait. And wait.

Ms V was there. I felt slightly awkward. So I waited outside the cinema with the groupies and then there he was. Eventually I met him. My boss.

“Hi”… “I recognise that voice.” As well he bloody should as we’d been emailing and talking for a while now… So. I took out my notepad. I’m on my game. Lots of nodding, eye contact and I’m going to Zuma tomorrow to meet him properly. There are people listening. He’s cornered. I introduce myself to some people there. They’re snotty. Then I say I’m Mr X’s PA. Then they’re friendly. Wankers. There’s only so much of that I can take.

We drive back to Tam’s office, where we’d left the car. Tam’s boss and the woman who casts all of Mr X’s films, is still in the office. We chat. Her dog is mental, but lovely, racing around while we dissect life.

Tired. I go home. I've finally met Mr X and we start emailing at midnight through to 2am sorting out more stuff before our meeting tomorrow.

SATURDAY - off to Mr X's house

He lives in butt. fuck. nowhere. But next to Pierce Brosnan and five mins walk from Zuma Beach. But first? It's off to Beverley Hills, Rodeo Drive as it happens, to pick up his watch. I felt like a rockstar again, swinging my posh bag, filled with a watch that costs more than most of my possession in the US rolled together. Oh well.

I got lost on the way. It was SO far. SO far. I thought it couldn't be that far. It was. I drove fast. Very fast. But... I don't want to make this trip on a regular basis.

I got to the home. It has a pool. It's nice. But it's a long way from home.

It's hard to take someone seriously when their daughter has tied him up and put a purple tiara on his head. I get the lowdown on team Mr X. It's a lot to take in. Everyone seems very important. And I've not heard of any of them. But they're loyal. They love him. In fact, everyone I meet loves him. He's a creative genius - what's not to love?

I'm given more to do - sort out the blue tooth in his BMW, more gardening questions, the bin's gone walkabout. The housekeeper's not picking up the phone and I don't know where anything is. Mr X's gone off to High School Musical with his daughter (to collect tickets I really hope I bought for him!). Oh yes and download a book onto his i-pod. Now that took nearly an hour alone.

It's a long drive back. Long. And I've got two parties tonight. At least.

I met up with a friend. He took me to the gayest party I've ever been to. 40 men. And me. I'd made a vow in LA. No. More. Poufs. And what happens? I'm thrown into a party with gays. It had valet parking at the house. Posh. And the staff working it are from 'Adonis' catering. So I'm watching old gayers slavering over the food and the help. There was possibly one other woman but she looked so skinny she doesn't really count. She looked ill. They all produced or wrote gay films. Apart from one guy, who was editor of a magazine. Him I liked. He had a good tasche. But being around all the gays was slightly - what's the fucking point in this? So we went to my friend Nico's party. Slightly cunt soup. Slightly fun. The women here need to eat. One English skinny Lady was, incidentally, snotty unfriendly bag. Didn't like her at all. Why my friend bothered to give her a compliment I don't know. She's unpleasant. Horribly unpleasant. The party was Hollywood esque and just how these people could walk away afterwards and drive their cars? No idea. The booze consumption was immense.

I drove home through the mist and passed out into bed.

SUNDAY - no rest for the wicked.

Went to the beach with Eileen but ended up on the blackberry sorting stuff out. Silly stuff. Stuff not even worth mentioning anymore because you get the idea. I hope. It's a mixture of the mundane and the self important.

Saw the Changeling with Tam and started actually looking at my blackberry's contacts.

I have Johnny Depp's email. Whoop whoop! I’m excited.

There's an upside to everything I guess.

The one where I have the Handover

2009-04-30T23:28:00.000-07:00

Bless Ms V. She's lovely. Terribly sweet. And no idea why she got fired. Especially for a girl with no background in assistant work and a girl who's never met her boss. She gave me the run down. She made him sound terrifying. "When downloading stuff for his i-pod, you make a playlist and always miss out 'the' like 'rolling stones', not 'the rolling stones'... always get his air miles credited... always send him a schedule of his life twice a day... order him the same driver when he needs a car... he hates sitting in a back row on a plane... don't mention the dead dog (too late)... log every call... log every number... remember everything... call his publicity team.... call his agent... his agent's assistant... pick up his watch.... sort out his dish washer... and never gossip with his ex-wife. Ever." And so the list went on. She handed me a blackberry, a pile of receipts, a book of contacts and gave me a whistful smile of regret. And I felt bad.

After I drove her home and waved her goodbye, it all kicked off.

I had the phone. I had the power. Fuck.

And there was no charger for the blackberry. Fuck.

Where's the Scott Speedman DVD? Where can Warner's send a package to Mr X? Who's going to turn the pilot light on at Mr X's place (SoCal Gas as it happens... but what do I know of Californian gas companies)? What time's the pitch with the head of Paramount? Who's going to be there? What's available? Check with the co-writer... Check with Mr X... There's a fight co-ordinator in NYC. When's Mr X there for a meeting? Van Morrison tickets for the Hollywood bowl - he wants to go. I needed to get tickets. Oh and his Vacheron $10k watch. That needed picking up. A gift from his girlfriend (yet to meet). Fuck and Sundance needed some info from him. Where's the receipt for the dishwasher that was fixed? The landscape gardener needs to clear up, when's he coming? Who's fixing the screen door at the house? And then he's working across five or six projects, all of which are being co-written and I have to deal with who's who and what's what.

And my phone was dying.

And I heard that QPR had just sacked the manager. I barely flinched. I was busy finding out which project a Hollywood A-lister's working on with Mr X. Can I meet the A-Lister? I hope so.

I did it all. And I'm still not officially on staff. And... I've still not met my boss. We've been emailing. I collapsed into bed on Thursday night.

The one where I have my first week in LA

2009-04-30T23:09:00.000-07:00

Day One

I got off the plane and arrived in LA. The journey begins. Thank God I slept on the plane. Jenny’s buddy pass got me into Business Class on United. The flight was strangely eventful however.

I sat down on the plane. Row 13. My lucky number. This is my life. This is good. I’m sitting next to an old lady. The old lady’s also a seat hogger. Elbows everywhere. She’s also got my pillow. She grudgingly gives it back to me with an imperious old lady glare. I know I’m in trouble now. This woman is one angry lady.

They’re bringing round the Champers (and Orange juice). She asks for champers, I ask for Orange juice. They arrive and she nicks my orange juice. She pours it into her champers and goes to me: “it’s a mimosa”. Whatever lady. You just nicked my juice. I ask for another juice and they glare at me. As if ‘greedy cow, you’ve already had one’. But, it’s okay, the other lady asks for more champagne. I down my juice when I get it. Fast.

The booze starts coming round and the old lady is knocking them back. She’s even hiding her full glasses and insisting they didn’t give her any booze. By now, she’s had about five. We have not exchanged a word in the last hour. Since the ‘mimosa’ comment.

My chair goes right back. It’s like a bed. I’m loving it. Then… disaster. The old lady gets up and knocks over six wine glasses, some over her, some over the floor and some over my arm. The flight attendant comes racing over to help but the old lady’s having none of it. She needs the bathroom. The stench of alcohol is quite impressive and I watch as she teeters to the bathroom.

On her return. My sensitive nose can smell it. The witch has been smoking. SMOKING! She reeks of fags.

The purser comes racing over: “Mam… have you been smoking?” The imperious witch gives him a full on glare of indignation: “I do NOT smoke.” Liar! Liar! Liar! You stink! You’ve been smoking in the bogs. I go to the loo. It stinks of smoke. I’ve just given up so it’s so pungent. I use the other loo and decide to complain: “um… the old lady next to me, really stinks of cigarettes” or something like that. The crew are joyous. They knew it! She’d even left fag ash over the seat. I finally move seats.

I get a seat with no one next to me, I put the chair out in full, wrap up in the blanket and pass out. I haven’t slept in two days. The old lady is no longer in my thoughts.

I drift in and out but, in total, get around six hours of much needed sleep. Which is good because I can’t lift my bags so need all the strength I can muster. Especially on arrival. It’s wonderfully hot and I’ve got to drive on landing. My brain is so fuzzy. Am I really doing this? Am I really moving to America?

Once getting through customs (and being sniffed up by a dog - is sniffed up even a phrase? No? It is now) and head off to the car rental and drove to Judy's house (the lawyer I stay with when I'm here) and having unpacked I'm off to meet a friend and making an appointment to meet Ms V. Poor old Ms. She's Mr X's assistant. Or was. And was fired for me. And I'm meeting her to take over her job, life, career and all that. Poor cow.

So. I met a friend and his friend B asked me to ravage him. Which was nice. But I pointed out that I couldn't even muster enough energy for a hand shandy so he'd have to keep. He did offer me a place to stay at his if I needed it. Again, which was nice. Bed came early. I was fucking shattered.

Up at 4am. Emails from Mr X, my new boss, and my home to deal with. I'm still trying to rent out my flat. Thanks to the poxy time difference I had to deal with all that. People are demanding and they only want money.

Then... I'm up at 7am. And whooosh. My life's beginning.