Tonight in LA

There are decisions to be made – lots of them – and as usual, I don’t want to make them.

So I’m up in the middle of the night -- and with the worst ever case of the flu -- thinking.

Which friend do I want to spend Christmas with, and where? (Yes, I am very grateful to have options, but I wish I didn't have to decide now.) Do I want to live in Los Angeles for three months? Could I live in Los Angeles for three months? What if I hate it? As my sister wisely pointed out, if I don’t want a career at this magazine, why am I even thinking about it? And most worryingly, what if they don't let me come back to London?

I would do it in a heartbeat, I think, if it weren’t three months. A month? Sure. Two months? Oh, why not – especially when you consider I’d be swapping London for LA in January. But three months is a long time – a quarter of a year. It’s barely been four months since everything ended with the Fig, and frankly, it seems like eons.

I’m terrified of driving. I’m terrified of driving and Blackberrying at the same time, which is all anyone in our Los Angeles office seems to do. I’m a little scared of working harder than I ever have in my life, but mostly I’m scared of being absolutely crap at it no matter how hard I work. (Just because I don’t want to spend my life doing it doesn’t mean I want to be crap at it, especially when top editors will be watching.)

The plus side: It would be an adventure. I’m not sure that’s enough of a draw, but at the same time I can’t seem to turn this opportunity down so easily.