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with an abandon that would have done Gwyneth proud. And I’m not a weeper, either. Have you any idea what tears do to the skin under the eyes?
    I guess it was one of those anarchy second things that Wilhelm had been banging on about. In no time at all I had gone from A-list celebrity with serious store cred, to a sobbing wreck bereft of dignity and without the contraceptive equipment to take me into stage two of my next relationship.
    It was during a noisy gulp for air that I was distracted from my misery by shouting in the street. I looked up and spotted a street person—my street person, actually—lying in the middle of the road opposite Pedro’s Grill, pounding his fists into the bitumen. What a lunatic! I felt a momentary twinge of regret that I had given this crazy what was effectively my last money. If not for him I would have putthe coins in the meter and I wouldn’t have another parking violation to my name.
    The traffic was swerving around him, horns were blaring and people were shouting at him to “leave it!” And then I saw that he was actually lying on top of the guy who’d stolen my bag, which changed everything. Oh, my God! Talk about a hero.
    I felt terrible for not wanting to shake his hand earlier.
    I could see the orange flash of my bag lying next to him, and it was as if the clouds of gloom that had hovered over me for the last few minutes had parted.
    For the first time in months I was glad that my bag was orange, and not the must-have pale blue I’d requested, because at least the cars could see it clearly and were all swerving to avoid it, which was v. sensitive for L.A. drivers.
    Next thing, another British street person was striding across the road, holding a can of beer up in the air to stop the traffic. P.S.: I know I shouldn’t stereotype like that—I mean not all street people are British obviously—but he was too sartorially similar not to be lumped in the same national group. For a start, he was wearing an identical black woolen hat with earflaps. Would a North American male wear a hat like that? No.
    Anyway, he picked up the Birken—only not by the handle or anything sensible like that, and everything fell out onto the road: wallet, Palm organizer, cell phone, makeup, and then he bent down and went about the laborious task of picking it all up.
    His colleague climbed off the bag snatcher as if it was all over, but then the mugger grabbed him by his scarf andshoved him about, yelling, “You crazy motherfucking bastard! What the fuck you doing man? Fucking—”
    Nancy was right: from now on I was leaving errands to my PAs.
    By that point I’d walked to the curb and was about to go forth into the fray myself. To do what, I have no idea, but at that moment the bag snatcher punched my beggar in the face with a fair degree of force and blood spurted out of his nose. And these weren’t stunt people either—these were Real People—well, real street people.
    The drama didn’t stop there. A car—Lexus, I think—came speeding down Vermont, and while swerving to avoid hitting my beggar’s colleague—who was still, to his credit, gathering up my stuff—it sped straight over my diaphragm! I heard something inside me snap—my suspended disbelief, possibly?
    â€œNooooooooo!” I screamed.
    By the time I’d negotiated my way through the traffic the bag snatcher was cursing his way down the alley at the side of Pedro’s Grill and it was just the three of us, standing in the middle of the road with slack jaws. My street person, his colleague and myself, thrown together, as the most unlikely companions in a war against street crime.
    The itinerants handed over my bag. My phone was already vibrating so I answered it. It was Larry again, so I told him that I was in the middle of a Real Life Crisis and promised to call back. I knew he would think I was lying and call again, so I switched the phone off