Booze: Cracked this baby – I’m on the wagon.

Diet: Male actor friend has invented the Naked on TV Diet – for when he has to get his kit off. It’s brutal but I’m following suit. Now available to be naked on TV. Then again, so is Lena Dunham.

Exercise: The Secret states you can think yourself thin. Currently suing Rhonda Byrne.  

Quote: ‘Love builds up the broken wall and straightens the crooked path. Love keeps the stars in the firmament and imposes rhythm on the ocean tides. Each of us is created of it and I suspect each of us was created for it.’ Maya Angelou

Wendy Hiller and Roger Livesey, I Know Where I’m Going, 1947.

I’m trying to explain Valentine’s Day to The Girl. She’s writing 26 Valentine’s cards – one for each member of her class, while anticipating which boys are going to ask her out. They are 10. I’m trying to explain that every day is where love is – not the one day. A day chosen as a marketing initiative for teddy bears who sing Michael Bolton songs. For candy – here, more of it. Hallmark – here, bigger, embossed, more Wordsworth – thinking, I wish my mother had debunked the Disney myth. Or should I blame the 19th century romance fiction I practically ate from the age of 12? Because every Valentine’s Day I want an anonymous card, flowers, chocolates and Willoughby, and am cross with myself for wanting it and then mildly disappointed when he doesn’t run me over with his horse.

Truth is I can’t remember a Valentine’s Day with a partner. I’m so sorry I can’t. Maybe it’s the amount of alcohol consumed. I do remember us both getting bored on one and going to the new lap-dancing club at the end of the road, where he invited the girls back to meet our goldfish. But I think that was an anniversary. Then there was another, where we booked this most expensive restaurant and arrived to sit next  to- almost nose to nose – with my nemesis. And she and I spat into our mussels and calcified, while my boyfriend and her husband had a nice chat.

No the Valentine’s I remember are the ones with my girlfriends. Janet – where we wore ball gowns with bare feet. There was snow in February. We lit a fire. We ate exactly what we wanted; caviar, lobster, champagne, truffles, bread! We watched Powell and Pressburger’s I Know Where I’m Going and sang along with Wendy Hiller at the top of our lungs.

Then Tara and I went to a Palm Springs spa for another; where we arrived and were horrified to see signs that said ‘No Talking.’ There were old people floating in the lithium pools, holding each other – and we ran terrified to the farthest end of the enclave to smoke and call hotels in a vain search for a dinner that might involve a margarita, noise and badly behaved boys. We ended up in our white dressing gowns like mental patients, surrounded by couples, eating raw garlic and knowing they all thought we were lesbians.

This year I received a slew of Valentine’s texts and emails from friends – more the American way of just acknowledging love. I mean any excuse to celebrate and quote Maya Angelou (evidence above, I’m getting there too. Losing the irony). And I went round town seeing love in the strangest places.

This year, four of us ladies, including The Girl chose to celebrate by seeing the only romance movie released on the day; pure smaltz with a bit of heart-in-mouth thriller thrown in. We ate Pink Berry, popcorn, Milk Duds (which in English are the best Revels – y’know the ones you eat through the whole bloody packet to find – the hard caramels with chocolate surround?). We laughed, cried, awww-ed and shrieked at the bad guy, along with the rest of the female audience. And then we sat in the cinema for ten minutes afterwards and talked about it.

For me the film, Safe Haven, was about the ghost in the machine. Its significance was that by remembering those we love and have lost – we keep them alive. So this is for the girlfriend I lost who I’d love to spend a Valentine’s with – because boy did she make me laugh and was a constant reminder of what life and love are about.

For Lou Gish 1967 – 2006. I love you mate.

Lori and Lou 2003.

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Booze: Swam a sea of it and currently crawling onto dry land.

Diet: Everyone’s on a cleanse. Everyone’s consuming liquids. Restaurants’ foreclosing.

Exercise: Celery smoothies do not give you strength. Finger push ups only. Maybe batting an eyelid.

Quote: ‘I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.’ Alice Walker

White Christmas 1954. Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Vera-Ellen, Rosemary Clooney.

Christmas in LA is an anathema. That’s not to say people don’t go to town. There are nativity scenes with five-foot Marys, Josephs and Jesuses laid out on front lawns, melting in the burning sunshine. Ten-foot blow-up snowmen, waving gently in the light breeze atop suburban bungalows and Christmas trees aching for snow on every street corner. It’s just not the same as cosying up in front of a roaring English fire, listening to the relentless rain and The Pogues. It isn’t.

Then there are the Christmas cards. These are very serious family photos – one this year was an entire clan in ball gowns rolling in the Malibu spume – no irony intended. Oh and the onesies – three generations pottering around on Christmas Day dressed as overgrown babies – and some of those even made it to the cinema. Because that’s what people do in LA. Sod Santa, we’re all going to the movies. Everything was sold out – from Django Unchained to that most uplifting Christmassy experience Les Miserables.

In a vain attempt to recreate tradition I invited friends, as discombobulated as I, to do Christmas the British way. A morning walk in wellies (OK it had to be by the sea), smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, champagne and Secret Santa. The walk went rather well, until the male contingent disappeared onto the sand in chase of two teenage girls wearing bikinis and Santa hats. The eggs really couldn’t go AWOL but my accompaniment of Britten’s Ceremony of Carols caused raised eyebrows and was usurped by Bon Iver. And then Secret Santa turned into a war zone when we opted to throw dice to win back the gift we most wanted and ended up fist fighting over a Seiko watch, a hand held bidet and a pair of nun-chucks.

Then try explaining Christmas dinner. For starters these guys have done it all already on Thanksgiving and are tired of turkey and the trimmings. We excitedly provided Christmas crackers and were deeply disappointed by the response. No one understood why the bang was quite so thrilling. No one wanted to wear the hats – far too unattractive – and meant people put them on and moved strategically until they ‘fell off.’ And no one got why the crap jokes and even crappier gifts are really very funny. I mean, I know the miniature screwdriver set is going to be invaluable next time I get stuck in an elevator.

Pudding was even more problematic. Having boiled the bugger for two hours, I delicately coated it in brandy, heated the spoon and lit it aflame. Proudly carrying the steamed suet to the table in darkness, no one could understand why I was providing a dish that was literally burning in front of their eyes. And then, worse still, accessorised by lard. Brandy butter (i.e. brandy and sugar and butter) was regarded as insanity and then to have cream as well… what was I thinking?

By the time we got to Quality Street and  deconstructing mince pies (‘no, mince meat is not meat. Its sweet, like liquid fruit cake’), I relinquished myself to a bottle of Bailey’s and a karaoke rendition of ‘My Way.’

Next year I know if I want an English Christmas, I’m coming home. But what I can see with hindsight is that the traditionality I was forcing on my fellow man was doing the reality a disservice. And this was a Dane, a Dutchman, two Brits and five Yanks coming together to celebrate family style, without argument, triggering of past traumas or collapsing silently in front of the telly. LA may be a town of misfit nomads and individuals but get the right one’s together and there was enough Christmas spirit to make me eat a large slice of humbug pie.

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Booze: Fingers in ears; ‘la, la, la, la, la.’  

Diet: Trying to understand nut-cheese. Seriously. Vegan cashew queso fresco, macadamia cheddar, basil nut parmesan… 

Exercise: Watching Downton Abbey on iTunes in bed. My heart rate doubles every time Maggie Smith speaks, Mary and Matthew argue, O’Brien barks, or Isobel fights for another fallen woman.

Quote: ‘The soul selects her own society.’ Emily Dickenson

I think I have lived in LA long enough to make some heinous generalisations – to do some serious pigeon holing. If I were a cartoonist, I’d draw the following portfolio of Hollywood types, one or other (non gender specific) being destined to grab you at any given party, dinner or breakfast. Maybe we should turn it into a board game?

And before you accuse me of being Holier Than Thou – 3.5 years in LA and I’m a Clean Machine with a bit of Pseud, Confidante, and Narcissist thrown in. Who – be honest – are you?

1. The Boss

Mrs Robinson/The Graduate

This is your friend, your wingman, your partner in social crime who wakes up one morning and suddenly decides you are fractionally lower down the social hierarchy. Blink and you’re their PA – picking up smoothies, lattes, dry cleaning, post and feeding the friggin’ cat.

2. The Narcissist

Woody Allen/Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex

The narc interrupts his best friend while he’s enthusiastically telling you how he proposed to the love of his life over the weekend in front of their fave band with ‘Yeah man. Love that band! Saw them in San Fran in ‘98. They remind me of my halcyon days … and moi, moi, moi, let me steal your thunder with my boring little life.’

3. The Pitcher

Tim Robbins/The Player

It’s normal to pitch your movie to the mailman for feedback, but if your writer mate is pitch 1, 2 and 3 forward despite your personal crisis – or at every drink your director friend still presents their resume as a precursor to ‘hello’ (‘and when I directed E.T in ‘82), you start denying you are in the industry and reinvent yourself as a dental nurse with bad bedside manner.

 4. The Player

John Travolta/Saturday Night Fever

They think they’re better looking than they are, are always waiting for a date, will only commit to drinks (if that) and will leave you with the feeling that you are never, ever, going to be quite attractive enough. For them.

5. The Flake

Stephen Dorff

I think we dealt with that last time don’t you?

6. The Confidante

Lena Dunham/Girls

The master and mistress of the over-share, who on first meeting clutches you to their bosom, claims you as their bestie and who you never see again.

7. The Clean Machine

Gwyneth Paltrow

No drink, no cigs, no drugs, no food – pretty much liquids only – these guys kniption with a whiff of anything non vegan. Just being around them makes you feel grubby. Luckily they go to bed at 6pm.

8. The Pseud

Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros

Handlebar moustache (men), tattoos and eclectic fashion (women), they live in Silverlake, Venice and Downtown, can talk art, literature, music and are terribly clever, thin and hairy.

9. The Commitment Phobe

George Clooney

Forty going on twenty, the CPs and cougars go for fresh meat while yearning to their peers that all they want is an equal with whom to spawn small and perfectly formed versions of themselves.

10. The Exec

Mickey Rourke/9 1/2 Weeks

Money and power mean no one says ‘no’ to them. It buys you a private jet, a 3-way and meaningless sex with any nubile/nu-boy whose name is on a billboard or in need of your casting couch. They then go home to either their empty house or spouse.

11. The Wannabe

Glenn Close/Fatal Attraction

Feigns sensitivity and has the body language of a great listener when their underlying ambition is utterly ruthless. They’ll sell (or stab) your grandmother as soon as you pave their way to opportunity.

12. The Name Dropper

Maggie Smith/Downton Abbey

‘Ya, saw Blake Lively over breakfast with Aaron Sorkin, think we’re going to hook up this weekend with Rob Lowe in Malibu but then there’s this little party Justin Timberlake is throwing for the homeless. Think Gaga’s going to go and haven’t seen her since she came over with Deepak Chopra and P Diddy…Oh and FYI Will Ferrell says hello. Actually no – he didn’t mean you.’

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Booze: Have decided the hangover is the perfect way to avoid your problems as a preferable horror to struggle through the day with.

Diet: Forget that. Will be found dead in the gutter eaten by large Alsatians.

Exercise: When I said I’d been to Soul Cycle earlier, I lied. And feeling a charlatan, I went. Chained to a bicycle in candlelight, when the guru rounded off with ‘ride, ride with all your strength for the ones you love,’ I started sobbing uncontrollably. I’m never going again.

Quote: ‘People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.’ Maya Angelou.

In England a flake is a chocolate bar. Cadbury’s invented the Flake post-War as a clever way to ration chocolate by making a whipped stick with more air in it than sweet. It was a con. Basically.

In LA a flake is a homosapien. I was first accused of being one straight off the boat. A London mucker put me in touch with a blind date. We spoke on the blower. He was super intense and the phone call was followed by a series of emails where he sent me a picture of his dog in the surf, five images of a salad he had made earlier and an extract from his self-published book, which included such pearls as ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day. If it had, it would have fallen down.’ Despite the red light, we met and within minutes he was in tears about the death of his mother – on the Broadwalk in a manner that resembled a rather fine performance of Hamlet. I really respected his openness but felt I simply couldn’t take it on. And ignoring a slew of further emails from him, received a final missive saying I was just another ‘fffffing LA flake.’

So the flake, LA style, seemed to be someone who doesn’t deal. But since the term ‘flaking’ is common vernacular, I think it’s time to examine it more fully.

First ‘the flake’ is the ‘no show.’ And the ‘no show’ is actually considered quite cool. The ultimate is throwing your own birthday party and not turning up because there is a better party to go to. Stephen Dorff does this allegedly. He’s out there – Somewhere.

‘Flakey’ as in ‘flittery’ is common too because it’s rare that anyone here has only one commitment per evening. To be taken seriously you need to have at least three parties to go to. And you allocate an hour (if that) for each. This comes down to LA being an industry town where who you know and who you smooze is in direct correlation to how much you work. This leads to waving goodbye to actually sitting down with friends for an entire evening.

People flake dinner parties too because everyone is constantly changing their plans for better ones. Usually you get a rush of last minute cancellations or an inability to commit and are thus found at the meat counter not knowing who is going to materialise and whether to buy one chicken or two.

This makes the one-on-one a semi-extinct animal. People travel and flake in packs. A tete-a-tete becomes a trio, the dinner party buggered by add-ons and in the case of parties, a whole load of unknown flakes can be found going through your underwear drawer. The best example being Tarantino turning up to a friend’s Halloween with a busload of 40 women all dressed in nurse’s outfits.

Other versions of flake are the: highly medicated – with migraine having forgotten to take Wellbutrin, Ritalin or Adderall; the tardy flake that says they’ll meet you at 7 and always turn up at 9 – but you learn to plan accordingly; the dis-invitation flake, who invites you to a great party but then says they can’t get you in because you’re not important enough; and the flake who gets a job directing or acting in Alaska who you don’t hear from for six months.

Now is this specific to LA? Not entirely – but here the industry dominates the social hierarchy and the dog-eat-dog and resulting pecking order has a singular Hollywood spin. This is a town where you have to accept an audition, or pitch, or meeting on the morrow automatically takes precedence and is socially acceptable flaking.

But also in a city of surface, where being successful is paramount, keeping up appearances ultimately makes LA a hard place to be vulnerable or blue. Instead of stepping forward into society for comfort it is then advised you actually retreat and ‘flake.’ Which means sitting in a hot bath watching bad television until you feel up to the fray again. And you deal with this – if no one is free for said one-on-one – With. Your. Therapist.

Thus the definition of flake is truly multifaceted. And metaphorically the LA flake becomes surprisingly similar to the English one. Take your density as a person off the table and present to the world the whipped up and ever-so sweet and creamy version of yourself and you will be easily digestible. But come at the social network with the full and heavyweight version of you and it might be too much chocolate for the general populous to handle.

The most obvious consequence is lack of intimacy but ultimately one cannot judge flaking. We are all guilty of it in one form or another but I wonder if we might not piss each other off quite so much if we were more transparent about where and why we flake. If we owned the town for what it is, we’d be left to appreciate that flaking is truly the LA form of politesse. To flake or not to flake? That, my friends, is the question.

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