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

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...

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 after I got shot...

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...

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.