Why I'm moving to LA (again)

My daughter Sefi and I first moved to Los Angeles two years ago in an ill-fated attempt at nuclear familyship with my long-term American boyfriend, Robin. It had taken six months of unadulterated stress to arrange the move. I had to get a job transfer and visas for us both, find a school and a nanny for Sefi, now 10, sell my London flat and rent a place in LA.

We finally moved in December 2000. By April, we were on a plane back home. I had barely begun unpacking the boxes before disaster struck. The job was horrendously stressful, Sefi was struggling at school and my relationship was on the point of collapse. When I got back to England I took nine months off work just to recover from the whole nightmare.

Despite this disastrous experience, Robin, a financier, and I had kept up a transatlantic relationship until last Christmas. By then, after five years together, I knew I wanted to get married and have some more children. He simply couldn't cope with that commitment and we finally split up - I believed for good. But the course of true love never runs smoothly.

A few weeks ago, he turned up on my doorstep and proposed. My friends think I am insane to go back to him, but I always was a sucker for romance. And so it is that I find myself about to enter Groundhog Day - and do it all again.

The first, and most pressing, problem will be Sefi's schooling. When we first moved to California, my preconceptions of the American education system were wholly negative. My daughter's image of US school life involved a heady mix of vampire-slaying and leaning against one's locker in full make-up while people shouted things like "You go, girlfriend!" The reality, needless to say, was somewhat different.

Academic standards at most LA private schools are, in fact, high. (If you don't want your child frisked at the gates for drugs or guns then public school is not an option). But the pressure to succeed is also formidable. Often I would get in from the office exhausted at nine o'clock to find poor little Sef still slumped despondently over her Spanish homework. Her school bag was so heavy I had to take her to a back specialist for the pain.

For anyone who has struggled to get a child into their school of choice in London, believe me, in LA things are 20 times harder. With parents who are willing, and able, to donate a Lear jet or a baseball stadium to the best schools for the chance to pass Steven Spielberg their script after the fathers' race, it can be almost impossible for "ordinary" families to secure an interview.

My first call will be to Diane, the very sweet, deeply Californian relocation agent who patiently helped me through the minefield last year. Relocation agencies help with everything from schools to visa lawyers and house-hunting, and their advice is invaluable. Diane was an angel who gave me my first real taste of Californian culture. She used to sign off all her e-mails with "I send positive thoughts".

One of the earliest myths to explode when you move to the States is the idea that American service is vastly superior to British. If only I had a pound for every time I have listened to American bankers in London banging on about how easy it was to get things done back home. What a joke! Americans may smile at you and say "Have a great day!" but they are about as useful as a flame-thrower in hell when you need to get something done. Things as simple as opening a bank account or buying a mobile phone were rage-inducing ordeals of frustration.

As far as I can tell, it's a crime in America to buy anything unless you have borrowed the money to do it. By the end of my first month in LA I was displaying a lot of what Diane would have called inappropriate energy.

There are some trials that I won't have to go through again. Now that I write for a living, I no longer need a nanny for my daughter, which means no more interviews with girls called Candy or Misty, whose opening line is always "Of course, I really want to be an actress but ..."

Half my possessions - furniture, clothes, books - are still in Robin's house as I never had the energy to ship them back to England. Best of all, he still has my fabulous car, a monster SUV called a Lincoln Navigator for which I need a step ladder to get into. Cars are important in LA because the city is so spread out, and you spend two-thirds of your day driving. But buying one - if you're English - involves more red tape than defecting to China.

At least this time I will be prepared for the battles ahead. When we go house-hunting, for example, I will know that "French country-style" means the place is decorated like a Parisian brothel and "antique" means built before 1960. And I will know that once you get out of the London property market, you can never afford to get back in. But I also know that if you make it through the trauma of moving, California can be a wonderful place to raise a family.

There's a lot to be said for permanent sunshine, stunning scenery and endless sandy beaches. And, secretly, I quite like it when people tell me to have a great day.

Most of all, though, I know that this is still the man I want to marry. People keep asking me "What's changed?" and "How do you know things will be different this time?"

It's not an easy question to answer because, ultimately, love is always a risk. I can only say that I haven't had a truly happy day without him. So I think it's time to start thinking positive thoughts - and planning that wedding.