Yes it's churlish of me to whinge, particularly at this early juncture in my US junket, but yesterday I discovered what 4.15am looks like when I had to rise to catch the bus to Heathrow. For the love of God, why is anyone even awake at that time of day?
And then there was the flight: I endured 12 hours sitting next to a chap who had marinated in a whole can of Lynx. I was very tempted to divorce the Animator and marry this man on the spot, but my nasal hairs were so singed I was rendered quite incapable.
And let's not forget the brat who insisted on kicking the back of our seats at every opportunity – and of running up and down the aisles squealing as if his arse was on fire. Par for the course, his parents ignored the hateful stares of every passenger. A textbook case of those who need to be forcibly castrated at the onset of puberty.
The high point was LAX (it's not often you get to say that). Being the day after the Oscars, my overly-fragrant travelling companion warned me to expect possible celebrity sightings. In the scrum to locate my bags and my driver, the only person of note I spotted was Desperate Housewife Eva Longoria. Well, I think it was her. Someone mentioned her name, so we all swung around to see a swish of dark hair, ginormous sunglasses and three burly black security guards.
But that's good enough for me...