On being lucky

I am lucky to have a brother and a sister. I also have a bonus sister. I have known Pamela literally my entire life (she's 3 months older than me).

1986. The Infamous Chalk Incident.

We grew up going to church. We wandered around the building talking to people with the same ease and confidence as if it were our own front room. We were absolutely at home there, with the senior citizens, our parents' friends, the other kids in Sunday School, the babies in the creche. It was an extension of our day-to-day lives. And we had each other. There were other families with kids the same age, but in the end they all came and went, moved houses or cities and we lost touch. But there was always the two of us.

1989. The little one is my brother Andy. Knowing us now, the cowboy/princess choices were ALL wrong

I don't remember the first time I stayed over, I'd be surprised if it was any later than 1990. My house was manic and busy but it was peaceful at Pam's. We  would watch Baywatch and her mum would make carribean chicken and we would eat pop tarts for breakfast.  Her mum and aunts and uncles and cousins and Granny Vi were as much part of my life as my parents and siblings and aunts and cousins and Granny Eileen were of hers.

She moved house when we were 8 and came into my class at primary school. It wasn't always easy, being friends at school and church, which took up most of our lives. We went to high school together too. We would argue. Sometimes LOTS. But the thing with siblings is that you always love them no matter what you argue about.

I moved away for uni at 18, Pam stayed at home. We still made sure we got lots of catching up time in. We are, in absolute fundamentals, opposites. I am small and brunette, she is tall and blonde. I like blue and green and books and arguing debating and nursing and talking loudly whereas Pam is pink and sparkly and Art (with a capital A) and photography and overwhelming, fierce love for people. She expects things to be beautiful and has no stomach for gore and guts. She is simultaneously quieter and bubblier than me. She has been a bridesmaid at least 4 times because she is the kind of friend everyone wants around them all the time. She has a horrible scar on her finger from an accident with a Franking machine aged 10, has kept odd pets like rats and chinchillas and is also super super clever. We are intricately and complexly bound up in each other's lives. Whenever life has fallen apart, she's been there, championing my side, even when I'm not quite right  wrong.

2010. Me signing the register at Pamela's wedding,

She married an American and ran off to live in Colorado. We would catch up on the phone in big, long drawn out spurts. 3 hour phone conversations about life, the universe and everything in it. She was the florist at my wedding, making some of the most beautiful, interesting bouquets and buttonholes anyone has ever seen. She made it over for the wedding, and the night before she stayed over at my house. We sat up til 3am, telling stories and drinking wine. We got ready together the next day, slowly adding other people to our  cosy morning of tea and toast. The only time I cried during the whole wedding day was when she had to leave.

2012. My wedding. Picture by Lauren McGlynn. Flowers by Pam.

She recently moved back home to her mum and family and Paisley, which I know is where her heart is. We are back to crazy time zones and catching up all the time on twitter and facebook and sometimes in big, long bursts. And today, at 4.07am after a long and complication filled day, she brought Lucy Elizabeth into all our lives. I cannot wait til May when I can get some cuddles and have a long, long chat over tea and toast.

'So how's the job hunt going...'

I get asked this a lot. I think it's a polite way of saying 'So what do you actually DO all day, you lazy cow?' but the subtext may me mine, rather than the questioners. 

The job situation has been an interesting one- source of continual frustration and panic and dull acceptance followed by calm enjoyment, then back to the start with a welling feeling of frustration etc etc. For a long time I didn't have a social security number and was not allowed to legally work in the US. I started to look at volunteering but I was pregnant and miserable then not pregnant and not really up to it then it was christmas and I had my work permit... You get the picture. It never happened.

Part of my issue seemed to be a total loss of confidence. My nursing degree is not valid here, and I could do classes to make it valid but it would be expensive. Given that we've not decided how long we are going to be here, it seems a bit imprudent to spend a lot of time and money on changing my degree over. The question then became 'What do I want to do instead?' This has no easy answer. I am essentially unqualified to do anything in a care-related position. California has certifications and regulations for EVERYTHING, all centrally controlled and all extremely unwelcome to foreign degree-holders. To the point it makes me cry hot, angry tears at times. I KNOW I am a good care-worker, and yet I'm not able to do it. 

An admin type job seemed like a good plan, but I've not got very far with that either. Lots of applications, not much response. After a while, you start to doubt if you were ever any good at anything and you should probably just stay in with the cat so you don't bother anyone. More logically, there are a couple of reasons I can think of for this- my CV is kind of all over the place, with my admin days squashed in the middle of lots of childcare jobs, but I do think not having any American work experience or references is a sizeable negative factor. 

Even the nicest Americans you meet* are still convinced everything is (slightly) better here. It's ingrained into them, a doctrine from infancy that *this* is the greatest country in the world, everywhere else is like an irritating sibling or poor cousin- trying hard, but never quite cool enough. Generally it doesn't come up very often, but when it does, it drives me nuts. It's upsetting if I think about the hours I spent on the wards holding sick bowls, suctioning snot or scrubbed in during surgery, or the teeth-rattling headbutts and hard-fought feeding battles as a support worker that are discounted for taking place in the wrong continent. I need to prove that I am up to the challenge of being with real live Americans all the time. Since no one wants to hire me to do this, it'll have to be proven through volunteering. 

This is not necessarily a bad thing. I do find some Americans challenging to deal with at times.This sounds terrible, and obviously you cannot lump an entire continent of individuals together, but people here are loud and insistent. They have a sense of entitlement that can be jarring to my inherent Britishness. They show a great deal of enthusiasm for everything. I find it needy and insincere. I'm not sure of the sincerity, I can't quite work it out. People have assured me that it is sincere enthusiasm, but I cannot quite bring myself to believe it. 

I am quieter here, less likely to wish to be the centre of attention ('NEVER' I hear you shout, horrified.) I am more reluctant to initiate conversation, less likely to join in and venture an opinion. I can't really explain why. I sometimes wonder if my desire to be the opposite of the loud, enthusiastic voices means I'm having less fun than I otherwise could, but c'est la vie. 

I set out to answer the 'what do you do all day' question, and have succeeded in only explaining why the answer is not 'earn lots of pennies'. I'm finally volunteering most days of the week. I talked a bit about Baby to Baby before, but I'm going to be branching out from beyond the yummy mummy coffee morning, giving them my Friday to organise clothes and hang out with the interns, none of whom have two nannies for one child. 

I have also (finally) completed everything that needed to be done to volunteer at the UCLA hospital, which was no mean feat, and involved approximately 80 vials of blood, a week of phone calls and general grumpiness by all involved. I should start next week. It involves some seriously early starts, but I'm looking forward to it. The best I can work it out is that US hospitals use those who want to go to med school to do all the jobs student nurses manage in between learning/making beds/doing obs (or vitals, as they call them here). Given that I'm not trying to earn myself a letter of recommendation or boost an application, and the fact I am well versed in dealing with unpleasant people, I've been recruited to the least glossy volunteering position: the surgical waiting area. This basically involves corralling unruly relatives who are waiting for their brother/mum/cousin to have their kidney transplant and are labouring under the, quite frankly absurd, illusion that the surgeon will come and speak to them when it's over. 

As this is America, they family members believe, quite rightly if we're honest, that they are entitled to an explanation from the surgeon. As anyone who has ever worked with surgeons will know, this is optimistic to the point of foolishness. I will be the one who has to tell people that the surgeon has now gone for sushi/is straight back in the OR (MUST remember not to say 'in theatre'- means something very different here...) and will not be offering them a blow-by-blow account. If I do happen to get a nice surgeon who comes to speak to the family, I will have to explain to him or her that the family has gone for coffee. It will be challenging, intense and slightly mental. I cannot wait. 

I am particularly good at dealing with grumpy families. Once, after a lady had complained at me for 20 minutes about how much she disagreed with me, I accidentally poured a jug of water over her. Another time an irritated mum told me I was 'cutting corners' administering her sons inhaler in front of my mentor (I was, he was kicking me in the face. She was apologising to him for my 'mean-ness'). I made up some shite about not upsetting him too much and finding a balance between following procedure and doing what was best for his emotional well being. My mentor told me that was the moment she knew I'd make a great nurse.

So that will be my new activities. Sorting designer baby clothes and having pagers thrown at my head. Very much looking forward to it.

*Not my friend Hillary though. This is the main reason she is my friend.

#heartswap and valentine's treats...

Tis the day of a'mour, or so the card companies would have us believe. This year, since Valentine's day isn't a very big deal in our house (actually, this is the first one husband I have managed to be in the same country/not working nights for EVER) I took part in #heartswap, a gift exchange with the twitter ladies. 

Anna set it up, we answered a few questions to give a rough idea of what our swappee would like, set a rough £20 (ish) spending limit and off we went. I'm so glad the postal service came through for us. I was expecting it to be a nightmare, but it really wasn't.

I swapped gifts with the lovely Katie. I already follow her on twitter and read her blog, so I had a rough idea of what to get her, but ended up with this:

The wrapped gifts are candy. yum yum yum.

The cushion was one of my biggest sewing challenges to date. I'd never done any applique before, and I'm still not 100% sure how well it will look once I've done it a few more times, but overall I'm pretty pleased! It took about 12 hours of solid sewing to complete, from making the cushion cover (with a flap/open back so you can wash it..) designing it then cutting, sticking using heat'n'bond then the hardest bit by miles- the stitching. I love that I have made something for someone that they can use and keep in their house and generally squish and balance a laptop on and USE. 

In return, I received this amazing pile of gifts:

presents!

I confess I have finished the Agatha Christie (one I hadn't read, it's being ticked off the list now...) I am currently drinking from the mug and the tin is storing teabags, and my plan for this afternoon is to make the cinnamon and raisin cookies in love heart shapes for husband tonight. The chocolates are also all gone. Such amazing gifts, so thoughtful and sweet and it is the nicest thing in the world to open a parcel full of lovely gifts someone has picked out just for you. 

I also made some Valentine's decorations too. We rearranged the furniture in our living room at the weekend, and it looked a bit naked, so I whipped this up with some spare fabric I had from a charm pack (that's lots of pre-cut squares of fabric). I'm pretty chuffed with the result, even though Joan tried to 'help' and it took me 8 times longer than it should have. She also knocks the whole thing down on a daily basis but never mind! 

yeah, those are left over christmas candles. what of it?

All in, some rather successful sewing projects! They are definitely getting harder as Joan discovers what I am doing. She's taken to trying to eat the thread off the machine. Hand-sewing is definitely out unless she is asleep- I have too many scratch marks!

I'll leave you with these symbols of our undying love. Taking things very seriously as always...

guess who gave which to whom...

Moving forward

Mostly, this blog post is way to avoid all the housework I have to do, the CV I need to work on and the kitty-litter I need to change, but I also felt it brewing inside me, like it was going to bubble up and spill over if I didn't get it out, making a colossal mess. 

I have cried with envy on 3 separate occassions this christmas. All at pregnancy announcements. I am so angry at myself for letting it bother me. I didn't want to be that person, I didn't want to begrudge anyone else happiness because I've had some crappy luck. So many of my friends are pregnant at the moment, and I am thrilled for them and I don't even think twice about it. The bump pics on facebook are lovely to see, and I am so excited to be part of their lives. But those announcements this last week- wow. 

None of them were by close friends, more acquaintances. I'm not quite sure how they impacts on it all, but it is certainly a factor. I want to shout how unfair it is, how this should be me with the 'happy new year, especially for us since...' type announcement, not the girl who hasn't finished uni yet and with the boyfriend living in another city.  When I am feeling rational and calm and full of tea instead of wine, I feel guilty and rather ashamed of myself for feeling jealous or envious or angry or annoyed or whatever it is that boils over in hot, angry tears quickly brushed away. 

The really odd thing about the envy is that we're not 'trying again' as everyone politely puts it. We will, at some point, but for now it's on hold. I want to get a job. I would personally feel dishonest starting a job pregnant and wouldn't be able to find one if I was honest about it. So it has to wait. We're both really ok with this decision. We discussed it for a long time, and it was the right thing to do. I LOVED my boozy christmas (although I'm not sure my liver did...) and I am very much enjoying our rather selfish lifestyle at the moment. (I'm not sure exactly how much bearing the fact that pregnancy will mean husband will have to change the cat litter instead of me had on his feelings, but I suspect pretty high.) This is definitely the best course of action.

That is the duality of man, I suppose, cursed to never really be fully content with what you have, but rather to seek that greener grass. I'm sure it will pass. These things always do. I wanted to write it out in an attempt to normalise it a bit further. I found some amazing blog posts written by others when I was struggling, and it made such a difference to me knowing I wasn't alone. I read a few miscarriage forums, and they are really dark places. I have never felt the way most of the way those ladies felt. I didn't 'lo(o)se my angel', rather had a pregnancy end. I don't feel the need to have a winged, fluttering avatar marking time, or curse those 'awful' people who had the indecency to not read my mind but rather used some-what tired platitudes that, to me, show how desperately someone is trying to say the right thing. But some lovely, honest, hope-filled blog posts by some talented writers made me feel like things would get better. They are better. Every day they improve a little more. So on the first proper day of 2013, after the chocolate is finished and I'm contemplating taking down the Christmas tree, I'm feeling pretty good. I'll feel even better after another cup of tea. 

Happy New Year (finally...)

Every time I think I've experienced the strangest thing California has to offer, something appears to surprise me. This time, it was being the last large population to experience New Year. The time-difference is a perpetual source of irritation to us and our families- it's particularly tough with our 6 year old niece and 3 year old nephew- by the time we get up it is bed time for them. Arranging phone calls and skype dates is seriously tough. 

Sunset at the South Bay. My first ever Whale spotting.

When it comes to New Year, it adds a new level of weird. It hit New Year in Scotland at 4pm our time. It was awesome. I got lots of texts and messages from friends and family. My brother phoned me, somewhat worse for wear, to hear the fireworks in Edinburgh (this meant I couldn't hear a word he said, but the thought was appreciated!) We had a big skype chat with our friends who were having a party. The down side started about 6pm, however, when we were still 6 hours away from the bells here and were all New Year'd out. We've both been battling some sort of cold/flu bug. We watched some of a Star Wars marathon, a few episodes of Family Guy, an episode of Lewis on Amazon Prime and then we went to bed. I heard our neighbours shouting 'Happy New Year' with tooting horns shortly after brushing my teeth, whilst I was having a pee. There was fireworks that caused the cat to have a nightmare of a night, scratching down our bedroom door to get in. We were cuddled up in our duvet for the coldest night since 1973, safe from parties and entertainment.

2012 was a mental year for both of us. We argued the most we have EVER on the 1st of January, stress finally getting to us. I officially moved into our Edinburgh flat that day- the first of 5 moves I made in 2012. I am FED UP of moving house. We got married on the 7th of January. Husband went to Holland for a week on the 13th, I was back on night shift the same time. By the end of February I was in North Carolina for 2 weeks, April we came to LA for a week to decide if we wanted to move out here. By May we knew we would, and started the process of emigrating. This co-incided perfectly with the start of my management placement, or the last three months of my degree where my competence is decided. We moved out of our house in July, Husband moved to California and I stayed with my brother's wonderful girlfriend. I finished my degree with a bang (or rather, being first on the scene of a ward emergency, the first time in my whole degree that ever happened to me). I went home for a week, sat my last ever exam then flew half way around the world. We moved into our apartment in September, discovered I was pregnant in October, and then miscarried in November. December has been Joan, Christmas and recovery. 

Griffith Park and Christmas sunglasses (white blob in the background is the Hollywood sign)

I would argue this is TOO MANY things for one year. Just too many. I would like 2013 to be quieter, calmer and more settled. When it comes to resolutions, I have made a few, none of them too radical. Firstly, I resolve not to move house. Not even once. Last week we extended our lease by a year. This means that in 2013 I will not move house at all. I am so excited about this. 

I would like to improve my cooking, something I made some serious headway on at Christmas alone, but last week I made the best mac and cheese I've ever eaten (yeah mum, I went there. Sorry, I out-did you.) I am going to continue to make interesting yummy things instead of super noodles (or Ramen, as they are known here.) 

I would like to get better at sewing. Thanks to a sudden increase in time, I have made everything from baby blankets as gifts to sewing my own cushions for the living room. I have a ton of fabric and spent some Christmas money on a rotary cutter to make my edges sharper and I can't wait to get started. 

In direct opposition to having lots of time to sew,I would like to get myself a job. I FINALLY have a social security number and authorisation to work, so the search starts in earnest as of tomorrow, when husband goes back to work. 

Santa Monica Pier at Sunset

Finally, I want to take more pictures. Almost all the pictures I put on this blog are husband's. He is so good at making sure we have the camera, getting it out and documenting the cool things we get to see whilst we're here. I should really get better at it too. 

Any resolutions? I would love to hear how you are going to make 2013 a good year. And if your resolution is to travel more, our sofa is always free!

The worst kind of week

This is not a pleasant story, I'm sorry. It's long (ETA: it's really long). It's about grief and pain and I want to warn you because not everyone is in a place to read it. But it's my story and writing it down and sharing it makes it a little less scary and a little less painful. (It's also my husband's story. He's ok with me telling it. I asked, which only seemed polite.)  

We had nearly ten days to worry about it. A seven week scan was not the wonderful experience I hoped it would be. They told me I wasn't as far along as I thought I was (actually, an exceptionally rude lady said "well she's obviously not 7 weeks" without looking at me, despite having her arm half way up my lady parts. I'm in the process of complaining about her.) I knew they were wrong, but no one asked my opinion. There was a heartbeat, but it wasn't very strong or fast. I was dismissed with a 'come back next week' but no information. I googled it. This was a brutal introduction to the fact the outcome was probably going to be poor: miscarriage. My friends and family sent prayers and love and support. 

Unfortunately, the dye was cast already. I have never believed in pre-destination; but in pregnancy the future is set the millisecond it starts. I was never going to be pregnant for more than 8 weeks. The minutes, hours, days were all decided already. There was no way for us to change any of it. 

By the time we reached our second scan appointment, I was sure it was over. The scan, that ten days before had shown me a tiny blob in a black space was now a cloudy, messy grey screen. The trainee was the lovely. She calmly asked the sonographer for some help, but her face told me everything I needed to know. The sonographer tried to get a clearer picture. In the end I introduced the subject: "it's not good news, is it?" I can't remember how she answered, but she went to get the consultant. The consultant apologised: "I'm so sorry..." I've heard that a lot the last few days. We sat in the waiting room for 45 minutes, she had other patients who needed her too. We watched ladies with bumps, newborns, the happy families come and go whilst I tried not to sob out loud. I didn't want to upset them, have their happy experience tarnished by the fear my grief could cause. I engrossed myself in People magazines- the October editions with celebrity pumpkin-patch photos. 

I already knew what I wanted. My ten days of terror had given me ample time to research. I wanted the D & C. I wanted it as quickly as possible. The only way to make it happen that day was for it to be under sedation in the same ultrasound room I'd endured both scans. Fine, I said. I just wanted it over. An hour and a half later I was insuffiently drugged and lying with my husband by my side.

I don't think I'll ever be able to explain how wonderful my husband was. He sat next to me, held my hand, kept me calm. He was calm and strong and everything I was unable to muster. The procedure was the worst thing I've ever experienced. I remember every scrape, every stab, every moment. It was excrutiating. Stephen Fry gently whispered Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in my ear as I screamed and writhed around in pain, eventually begging them to stop. Except that I didn't. Husband insists I was quiet and barely moved. It was over so quickly. I kept trying to sit up but the support worker wouldn't let me. Husband asked for a sick bowl and they handed me one so small I nearly laughed out loud. I thought of my nurse friends, how we would look at each other and snort with derision and laugh that it was useless.

They let me go home after one last blood pressure check. The department was empty. I wondered when the staff looking after me would get their lunch. It was shuttered and abandoned and silent and I was so thankful I didn't have to walk out and pass the bumps and the babies. I went home and I slept. The sedation had finally kicked in.

It's hard to explain how I feel now. Sometimes I am angry. Angry because I didn't choose this. Because I wasted $50 on pregnancy tests and didn't eat for 4 weeks due to heartburn and because we'll be brilliant parents and because it's not fucking fair. This doesn't last long. The voice in my head (who, rather strangely, sounds remarkably like Dame Maggie Smith) says "of course it's not fair, why would you expect it to be fair?!" As a nurse, you know that rather than 'why me?', life operates on a 'why not you?' basis. We are no better, no more special or important than anyone else who has been through this. The crap things in life are indiscriminate, and it is simply our turn.

Other times I am sad. Paralysingly, desperately sad where I can't move my head because it hurts too much. This rarely lasts long either. I have always tried to approach sadness using the John Grisham method. I was a teenager when I read 'The Pelican Brief', and I remember vividly that the main character accepts that she's going to go on the run, but first she has to give in to her grief for the one night she has, otherwise she will not cope. I let myself be sad when I need to, because otherwise I will never be able to cope. When the worst has passed, I get up and do something. I watch Lewis or Miss Marple on Amazon prime. I go for coffee. It works for me.

All this being said, at times we experience proper joy and happiness. This often involves wine and silly jokes. I have missed wine. We are ok. We will be ok. I know that eventually the joy and happiness will take over, become the predominant emotion again. I'll be ready for it when it comes.

tastes like home...

This weekend has been a bit of a washout. Thankfully I had a lot of fun at the start thanks to skyping my whole class at their grad ball, which was nuts but lovely and made me feel so special and loved (thanks girls)

my gorgeous girls rebecca and jenny. pic taken by the lovely sandy

Husband and I went out a few times for drinks to celebrate my graduating and being an actual, official, Bachelor of Nursing (Child Health) with distinction, but I was a little sad I missed graduation and the ball. 

We also got to skype the bulk of our group of friends who were  having a weekend together in London. It was hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure. The homesickness was a big crashing wave that left a flood in it's wake. We bobbed along in it for most of the afternoon. I missed laughing like that. I missed hearing the stories, feeling absolutely comfortable with those around me. They swore too much, were all drunk and I realised how sensible and quiet out lives are here. I want to curse like a sailor and drink gin and gossip about people we know. 

Perfect afternoon with friends- Connect music festival, 2007.

I've been surprised how easy it's been to mostly hang out with husband. We have really good fun together. But I miss the drunken chat. The screaching laughter. The shouting at one another and debating politics and life and everything else. I miss having a group of friends we both just slot in to, no effort required. An old friend of husband's from his uni days is arriving for 36 hours on Thursday. I can't wait.

I've been ill since Saturday. I have the cold and have been super nauseous with it (not that unusual for me). I've been pathetic and napped a lot and been struggling to eat much. I got some amazing chicken noodle soup for lunch which husband decreed 'tasted like home'. We debated for ages what exactly about the soup tasted like home, and we decided it was the cooked carrots. Cooked carrots taste like home. There's a sentence I never thought I'd say.

Late Nights and Early Mornings...

We were really busy this weekend. Properly, old-fashioned busy. Friday night drinks with husband's work colleagues, where I had to speak extra slowly because they were all convinced they wouldn't understand me. Two (american) pints in I'm not sure they could, but I had stopped caring.  

Saturday we drove for an hour and a half through a lunar landscape to Santa Barbara, a town I've heard so much about but hadn't made it to yet. It didn't disappoint. From the beautiful pier, green-y turquoise sea to the Spanish style architecture in every single building, it was heavenly. There was a man on a skateboard being pulled along by two Labradors down the main street. A lady locked in the toilet when the handle fell off in her hand, proving looks can be deceiving, because the bathroom was really fancy. Little Toppers bobbing in the ocean, following their leader. Seagulls and Pelicans and a water taxi called 'Little Toot'. It was marvellous. It was still warm, even though the weather man said it is finally starting to cool down. I had a mint choc chip ice cream on the pier.

How do you follow an idyllic afternoon like this? Ikea. Ikea in Burbank, to be specific. If you are a Greater Los Angeles Ikea afficienado, like me, you will know this is the WORST one. It may be the worst Ikea in the world. It has no car park. You have to park 5 minutes walk away, meaning the loading area is some sort of apocalyptic warzone of trollies, trucks and despair. We were barely speaking to each other by the time we got home. This is standard for our trips to Ikea Burbank.

Husband had to work this morning, so went and sat by the pool with his laptop. I built the things we bought in Ikea, drank coffee and listened to my music up loud. Shopping followed, lots of it, then my least favourite part of the week- a driving lesson with husband. I'm no good at driving. I wish I were, but I am terrified and angry at myself the entire time. I've not made it out of the empty car park at the end of the street yet. Today it wasn't so empty because there was a big Romney/Ryan rally outside the Federal Building next door, and it was the first time I wasn't scared because the thought of hitting a few of them cheered me right up. 

It's now 1.30 in the morning and everyone from home is getting up, heading in to work and starting their day. This causes me untold confusion, sort of like jet-lag, because I think I'll miss out if I go to bed. The house is still very much alive. The waterfall outside gushes on, the pool is still lit up like christmas, the fan still whirls around, buzzing gently as it goes. It's never quiet here. I think that's why I love it.

Hollywood living...

I am positively giddy with glee at the prospect of telling you this astonishingly true story. It is SO Hollywood, and nothing Hollywood ever happens in Westwood, which is full of sun-worshipping academics, a strange breed that reads hefty books about the Korean War in swimwear.

It was super hot again today (35 degrees) so I sat by the pool waiting for my laundry to finish. A blonde lady I’ve seen a few times on the loungers appeared. She is probably in her 40s, but is so plastic it’s a bit hard to tell. She dresses like she’s 13 and it is 1989- the ‘stacey’ fluffy blond perm, TEENY floral bikini, tiny whitewash denim cut-offs and sugar pink lipstick. This is fairly entertaining to start with. It is made all the more entertaining by the fact I have a partner in crime, Elise, a newly qualified nurse who lives 3 doors down and is from Chicago and also thinks LA is a little bit ridiculous.

The lady blasts teeny-bopper music out of her iphone. This makes Elise and I snigger behind Instyle magazine. She sings along, slightly off key, at the top of her voice. She dances along too, wiggling her limbs disturbingly as she sunbathes on her back with a bright pink towel over her face. Every so often she exclaims ‘Girls, it is SO HOT, why is it so hot in October?’ We agree that it is indeed very hot, and sadly we do not know why.

She bolts upright, then starts making a call. That is when things got really ridiculous. She starts talking a mile a minute, telling the poor recipient how great his body was. Elise and I catch each other’s eye, then bury our heads in our magazines, scared we will actually laugh out loud this time. The point of the call quickly becomes apparent- “Dale, I want you back in movies. It’s time. I have a great part for you, only thing, they want you to be butt-naked.” Elise and I look at each other, eyes popping out of our head. “No, no, honey, just your back-butt. Back-butt naked.” Elise and I are now shaking with silent laughter. “It’s a love scene. You’re a yoga instructor. It’s perfect.” I mouth ‘what the hell?!’ to Elise, she shrugs, still struggling not to laugh out loud. Dale the yoga instructor agrees to be back-butt naked in the movie and she hangs up. ‘Girls, I’m an agent. He will be great. It’s a LOVE scene. He’s a YOGA INSTRUCTOR” (I still have no idea why these two things are related…)”You girls know what I love? To make money!!” She wiggles around in a sort of dance again, singing loudly about plastic bags in the wind along with Katy Perry. “OOHH! He sent me back-butt pictures for the casting agent. Want to see?!”

Elise and I quietly say ‘No thanks…’ to scared to look at each other or directly at her. The bouncy lady decides it’s time to go inside. “Darling girls, it is TOO HOT for October. I’m gonna shower. I had so much fun with you!!” She wiggles herself back into her little cut-offs and sashays down the stairs. We wait until we see her cross the courtyard before descending into helpless, uncontrollable laughter. ‘This city is weird’ Elise says to me. She is right.

Beautifully lit moments.

My life happens in beautifully lit moments. Everything in LA is perfectly lit. It's the reason the movie industry moved here from New York in the days of silent film. It washes everything with a glow that makes it feel a little surreal.

Today, Mrs Martinez from the 3^rd floor told me it was 110 degrees in the courtyard of our apartment complex today. That is HOT, even for here. “I watched you jump in the pool and I wished I could still jump.” Then the elevator pinged and she smiled at me and wandered out with her laundry basket, the usual call of ‘have a nice evening’ trailing back to me.

One day I cried for a full hour because I had read a tweet plugging ‘The big fat quiz of the 80s’. I wanted to watch it SO MUCH. Not because it was funny or because I cared who was on it or even because I loved the 80s (I wasn’t born til a few years in), but I wanted to watch something that connected me to my history. I wanted effortless pop culture cues and shared collective experience. I always feel a few moments behind the joke here…

I was sitting beside the pool, sewing a cushion cover. The turtles that live in the pond were on the patio next me. The biggest one watched me the whole time. He jumped back in to the water as soon as I finished, he must’ve wanted to be sure I’d get it done.

I have not long arrived in the US, and I am determined to wear beautiful flowing clothes like a cool, calm and collected indie princess. I would swan around the house in a flowing striped maxi skirt and sparkly anthropologie belt. I felt like one of the girls you see on blogs, with red lipstick and perfect tortoise shell glasses. Unfortunately, life still happens when you are beautifully dressed. I’m not sure if you have ever tried to change king size bed sheets in a maxi skirt, but let me offer you this advice- don’t. Especially not in 30 degree heat. This will always be known as the day I changed the sheets in my underwear, unaware that the team of landscapers were at the window. Moving away does not, unfortunately, change who you are.