“Have you ever felt so used up as this. It’s all so sugarless. Hooker waitress model actress” Celebrity Skin – Hole

With work out here being a tad hit and miss of late – I have become a bit of a lady who lunches. And this lifestyle can, in Los Angeles, be a little tough on the self- esteem, due largely to the population of beautiful employees moonlighting in hipster cafes, restaurants and bars of as they wait for their shot at the big time.

In their own towns and high schools, these beauties were the most talented, the most special, the most lauded by their parents and peers. But when they get to Hollywood to wow the studio execs, casting agents and directors with their acting, singing, and stand-up comedy skills, they find themselves in a city full of their small-town American equivalents and it seems to be pretty tough. Living here, it’s not that unusual to see your neighbour turn up in a guest spot on your favourite TV show, as I did once when I saw Carson from Texas in a five-second stint as a male hooker in True Blood. I asked him about it a few weeks later when I saw him in the elevator. His parents, he said, with a slightly sarcastic smile, were ‘really proud.’

There are only certain places the beautiful people will work though. I never see them in the local Rite Aid pharmacy, in an unfashionable stationary store or greased up in a burger drive-In. The beautiful are found in upper-end bars - the lower-end dives are for rockers and grungers - or waiting tables in places where people bring their Chihuahuas, have shoulder blades like razors or wear sunglasses which obscure most of their wide, perfect cheekbones.

But this sheen, like every type of gloss, does start to wear off and you get a little tired of all these Los Angeles beauties who blend into one dazzling ten-headed zombie. There are days when you yearn to catch a glimpse of cellulite, an unsightly bit of stomach bloat, or even, God forbid, a crooked tooth.

The plainer Janes like to console themselves with the idea that the beautiful aren’t as bright, are positively arrogant, or can’t make conversation. And this can be smugly satisfying when you meet someone who conforms to the stereotype. I recall being with three girl friends in an L.A. bar eyeing up a particularly stunning male who was strutting his stuff by a pool table. One of my friends started up a conversation and told him she was from the UK.

‘You’re English,’ exclaimed Mr Handsome. “My friend over there is from Germany.”

“Really?” enquired my female friend. “What part of Germany?”

“Austria,” he replied, unblinking.

Cue four ladies losing interest almost as quickly as it arrived. And so now, with my tongue firmly in my cheek, and a few firm strokes of my keypad, I reduce all these beautiful people in Los Angeles as being no better than Hitler. It makes me feel better anyway…