With less than 12 hours’ notice, I flew to LA at the end of last week.
This is what often happens in this industry. One minute it’s radio silence, the next all hell’s broken out and you’re attempting to pack your life away to head half-way around the world without prior notice.
I guess you’ve got to love it. Or at least that’s what people think. In reality, when you’re not the one doing it I can assure you that the tales of travel are a lot more fun than the reality.
With one pair of socks, a handful of essentials and a crumpled load of clothes, I was on the plane to LAX.
This was my fourth time in Los Angeles so you’d think I’d know what to expect, right?
Wrong…what actually unfolded during the five days I was there was something that resembled the complex storyboard of a tragic movie – without the happy ending. My goodness, if I described the drama, the chaos, the complexities and the round-about way of doing things over there, you wouldn’t believe it.
I was sure Ashton Kutcher from the TV show Punk’d was going to pop up and say: ‘Gotcha!’
I felt like shouting to anyone who would listen that I’m not used to this kind of behaviour. I live a very modest life in Copnor where the most drama I get is pressing the refresh button on my Mac.
You wouldn’t believe me if I attempted to tell you what went on and, unfortunately, the word constraints of this column prevent me from going into any great detail.
But those of you who know and understand my request for a decent night’s sleep will empathise with the fact I spent five nights in hell.
I stayed with my executive producer in the smallest studio flat in the centre of downtown LA. The walls were so thin that I went to sleep to the sound of next door’s TV and yelling.
When I dared bang on the wall one night I got the most abusive scream back. And I had this for five nights. No fancy hotel, no swimming pool, no Starbucks, paper-thin walls and an abusive next door neighbour.
I’ve never been happier to sit on a plane for 11 hours and come home.