Craigslist ... The answer to all my LA property dreams
Two strange things happened to me this week. The first is that I ate honey roast ham at an Easter lunch, and the second is that I finally went on a date with the writer from Saturday Night Live. He was very shouty and had a bizarre fixation with Gordon Brown. He didn't ask me one question about me or why I'm in LA, and he kept looking at other women, particularly the miniscule blonde at the bar. So that was bad. On the plus side he paid for the drinks and told a very entertaining tale about meeting Bill Clinton on a golf course at Martha's Vineyard.
Afterwards, I was so drained I met my friend Jennifer for coffee in Swingers, one of those long-standing diners they have in this town, and we shared a slice of apple pie a la mode. Rene Russo arrived around midnight with a gang of teenage kids, who all appeared to be wearing pyjamas. Rene is in her mid-fifties and looked amazing. Not an ounce of fat on her and, ahem, not one line on her face.
This is a town of have or have not. You either have the looks, or you don't. A friend of mine saw Cindy Crawford at the Santa Monica farmer's market and said she was so beautiful she looked as though she had been shuttled in from Mars. Which is curious because sometimes that's how I'd describe Los Angeles. I put it down to the house-hunting. I've seen a dozen places in the last week and met more than my fair share of freaky, flakey weirdos.
One house seemed to be inhabited only by lesbian psychotherapists, one guy had a collection of Lego guns, and another room was so small I felt like I was in the waste crusher from Star Wars. Vanda, the girl who was moving out of the latter, breezily told me that it had great light in the kitchen. It was the only room in the flat with a window.
Clock ticking, I posted a cheeky message on Craigslist: 'English Writer Seeks Venice Oasis to Write Blockbuster Script!' I listed everything my heart desired: a quiet beachside location, reasonable rent, cool flatmate, no dogs, no clutter, my own bathroom and parking.
Ask. Believe. Receive. A few hours later I had an email from a French girl called Virginie, who was renting out a room in her townhouse in Marina Del Rey. It ticked all the boxes. Immediately, I knew I could live and write there, so I handed over a deposit cheque and will be moving in two weeks. Ikea here I come.
The writing's been up and down. I'm now 67 pages into the first draft. Yesterday I wrote 22 pages, today only six. I'm feeling pretty drained. At writers' group we read through one of my pivotal scenes and the notes were pretty harsh. Ouch. I left with my head bowed, only cheered by the fact that our newest group member is a guy called Brock. I've never met anyone called Brock before. Wasn't he in The Colbys?
There's only a couple of weeks before I'm forced to hand over my bloated, incomprehensible first draft to the bods at Boot Camp. I'm already dreading their notes. Everyone in class was even more touchy-feely than usual this week because it's the last time we'll see each other before our appraisals. The guys all revealed their barmitzvah dates, the girls covered their heads.
LA is the only place I've been where being Jewish is actually a career move. I'm not orthodox and I don't talk about my religion much but here it's practically compulsory. Just don't tell them about the Easter ham. I liked it so much I had seconds.
