The one where I officially start

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 have the Handover

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.