Why I Hollywoodn't

So, Madonna and Guy Ritchie have wrenched Lourdes mid-term from the Kensington Lycèe, closed the shutters in the Marylebone mansion and swapped the grey skies of London for the sunnier climes of Los Angeles. And who can blame them? I admit when I saw the photograph of a carefree Geri Halliwell strolling down Sunset Boulevard, showing off her tanned bare legs in a tiny skirt and squinting in the sun, I felt a brief stab of jealousy.

This time last year, it was me leaping on an aeroplane, a broad smile on my face, as I headed back to my sun-drenched home in the Hollywood Hills. I would leave Heathrow at 9am wrapped in overcoat, scarf and three jumpers, and alight at LAX airport 13 hours later in time to catch a glorious sunset. I remember sighing with relief as I stuffed my jumper and woolly tights into my suitcase and replaced them with flip-flops and large Armani shades before skipping out into the fragrant evening to hail a cab.

Back then I would have agreed with Madonna, who recently snapped upon returning to LA: "Why the f*** are we still living in a shithole like London when we could be living here?" Why not indeed? Each morning I awoke to blue skies and the whirr of humming birds.

Breakfast was outside, in my nightie, with a copy of the LA Times, followed by a leisurely stroll in the hills before it got too hot. If it was the weekend, I would soon head to the beach or, perhaps, fly to Vegas, or drive to Palm Springs.

Sounds idyllic? Well, it was - for a time. But one year after moving to Hollywood, I was begging to come home. I finally packed my bags last October, kissed the earth when I landed and happily smiled at the lead-coloured skies. There may be sunshine in Los Angeles, but there's also silicone and greed, poisonous smog and giant SUVs driven by maniacs. The food is boring, the people self-obsessed, the shopping dismal and their fashion sense, quite frankly, is appalling.

The beaches may be beautiful at first glance, but look closer and you'll see the sewage in the water and animal defecation lurking in the sand. That's if you can get to a beach - most of the best places to bathe and watch the sunsets are fenced off by selfish millionaires desperate to protect their ugly beach-side castles.

And having skin on show all year comes at a price. Hair removal is obsessive. We're talking weekly Brazilian wax sessions, laser treatments and daily exfoliation.

In London, we can let it all hang out for six months of the year, stop painting our toes and forget about the stomach crunches. Not so in California. We're talking a lot of money, time and effort to keep up that body beautiful (my beautician became one of my best friends).

The weekly Saturday trip to the beach would incur a flurry of agonised activity the night before, gasps of anguish as my flatmate and I stared at the cellulite we were about to parade in front of some of the most buffed bodies in the world (Robbie might be a hunk back home; over there he's a fat boy). I ran every day, eventually damaging my back so that back in Blighty I spent a fortune on a chiropractor. And all those UV rays play havoc with your skin - lines around my eyes have doubled and brown sun spots now fleck my cheeks.

Most women in Hollywood think nothing of a monthly trip to their favourite plastic surgeon on Wilshire Boulevard or weekly dermabrasion to regain that youthful glow. I couldn't afford the knife (nor would I want to), but I was persuaded to have a course of diamond peels - basically a posh version of sandpapering your skin. To my horror, within 24 hours I looked as if I'd developed a serious case of psoriasis - with large flakes of skin hanging off my chin.

As for the nightlife - there isn't any. LA may host the Oscars but it's about as happening on a Friday night as Milton Keynes. Angelenos never eat after 7pm and are tucked up in bed by 10. Ask about their weekends and they'll be hiking. If I ever had a second glass of wine, I was glared at in disgust by pert blonde women whose idea of conversation is the Zone diet and the fact they've just bought a new juicer. Light a cigarette and you'll be thrown in jail.

Of course, there is that allimportant proximity to celebrity, but believe me, spotting one in the flesh will only make your evening worse. At one drinks party I attended with Reese Witherspoon and Cameron Diaz, everyone talked in hushed voices as if in the presence of royalty, while the sycophants fluttered about like desperate moths. Conversation, you discover, will never stray far from the film industry - socialising is about networking, not having fun. If you're not a star, don't expect to make any long-lasting friends.

Madonna may find London "depressing and freezing" in winter, but that's nothing compared to being given the cold shoulder in LA.