I'm sitting outside at my usual Starbucks in West Hollywood. It's almost five and the beautiful, still warm day (I'm just wearing a t-shirt) is fading ever so slowly: pink skies on the Eastern horizon, yellow on the West. Yes, it's Christmas time in Los Angeles. And I wish I had time to enjoy both the weather and the season. But the last week has been hell; I've been so stressed out at times that I felt on the verge of losing it. In some ways I thrive on this level of stress: I pride myself on accomplishing everything I set out to do in a day, no matter how much new stuff gets thrown at me. I rush around breathlessly in my car, cell phone pressed to my ear, from one crisis to the next, feeling like Superman. But I have to learn to slow down. Unfortunately, there really hasn't been much time to smell the roses. Until now: finally the week is over, and the weekend is relatively unscheduled. Still haven't wrapped any Christmas presents, or sent any Christmas cards, but I guess we'll get to it over the weekend.

Added to my stress this morning was a rather difficult decision I had to make. I'd been offered the position of tech-lead on the project next year, the caveat being I'd have to spend most of the first six months of the year in New York. So it was the classic challenge for all couples: career versus togetherness. It wasn't, finally, much of a contest. I spent six months straight in New York last year because I could do it: I had nobody back home - no family, at least. Now it's different. So early in our live-in relationship I can't see spending so long apart. Moreover we're still house-hunting (we backed out of our eyrie in the Hollywood Hills when our visceral reactions cooled sufficiently to notice how small the house was), so January and February are going to be important months for Ben and I personally. And finally, I'm just getting used to the eternal Summer of Los Angeles: I'm not ready for frigid New York in January. So I turned it down. I did win one small battle however. They actually wanted all team members in New York pretty much full time. I basically said I wouldn't do that, knowing full well that they absolutely need me for the project to succeed.

We moved last weekend, to a small one-bedroom apartment - an in-between while we house-hunt. All last week, we packed, and the two dogs grew increasingly frantic as the carpet space began to fill with boxes. They'd walk around, panting, or stand still staring, looking as if to say "Can I help?" Both dogs ran away at various times: Brewster, the beautiful old Bernese mountain dog, just ran a few houses down the street. His breed rarely live past nine years old, and Brewster's coming up on that soon. Yet as I ran him back to the house, his gait was flawless and fluid. He's an absolutely gorgeous, well-behaved, lovable dog. When he does pass away, I know Ben will be heartbroken.

When Indira ran away it was more serious. It was during the move day itself. The movers were mostly Mexican, and when they found out I was English they kept peppering me with questions about English soccer players. When Indira vanished (she was nowhere in the house, and nowhere to be seen on the street), they knew what was going on, yet one of them still kept going on at me about Kevin Keegan and Alan Shearer despite our increasingly obvious worry about Indira. Ben ran off in search, and I went after him in my car: she showed up a couple of blocks away, nosing down a fence.

Indira is a deeply stupid, somewhat aggravating dog: a big, messy girl (a St Bernard). She's fat, and she snores very loudly all day long and all night. She's very affectionate, but goes crazy whenever she sees another dog (Brewster just turns his nose up at Indira's behavior and skips along by my side). The snoring, though is becoming a problem, and particularly in the small apartment where we now live, she's keeping me awake. So I've shut her up in the tiny bathroom a few times. She knows I'm going to shut her in, so she pulls away as I tell her to come. Yet all it takes is for me to flash a sliver of doggy biscuit and she rushes joyfully into captivity in the bathroom. I'm trying to discipline Ben into forcing my weight-loss program for Indira, but he's too big a softie.

But both dogs bring pleasure, and help me to smile even if I'm really stressed out. They know the precise signs of an impending dog-walk: either the rustling as I grab plastic poop bags, or, of course, picking up their leashes. And they both start capering as soon as those signs are clear. Brewster does this cute stretch where he sticks his paws forward; Indira meanwhile is positively leaping into the air, all 150 pounds of her, with excitement. One day I decided to test how stupid they both are, and I grabbed their leashes while I was stark naked, and walked to the door. Totally unfazed, they started dancing and capering as usual.

The moving day itself was exhausting: despite having four movers, we both worked non-stop from seven in the morning until seven at night. We were such a good team: never any question about what to do next, both of us taking on the next task without even much need for discussion. I think we both really appreciated that day how great it has to have a partner who's smart, and highly competent.

We were determined, after all the stress of the previous weeks, to go out and have some fun Saturday night after the day spent moving, despite being very tired. So we met Bill and Stefan at the Abbey for drinks, and then went dancing for a short while at one of the clubs along the strip. We ended up going out for drinks again on Sunday night, to a place called Here, next door to the Abbey. And I realized how much I'm growing to like Los Angeles. Both the Abbey and Here are diverse, hip, friendly places with great eye-candy and no cover charge. There are lots of outside spaces, and they're usually not so cold, even on a winter's night.

And I like our new neighborhood too, even though it's only temporary. We were invited to two parties before we'd even moved in, and went to one of them: a tree-trimming party held by our upstairs neighbor and landlady, the TV host, a gorgeous blonde creature. I got quickly tipsy on a lemon meringue martini (what's next, a garlic martini?), and talked chirpily with a succession of beautiful women, including a tall, stoned, blonde, female lawyer who blurted out "You're totally hot." It's fun to think we're living in Hollywood. It's a different place than I expected. When we go shopping for groceries, you can see that there's real street life in Hollywood, even after dark. Our usual supermarket is Ralphs, and I noticed that you often see people who look like drugged out, aging rock stars there. I told Bill (who's an old Hollywood hand) about it, and he laughed, and said people call it Rocking Ralphs.

Anyway, we're still on the lookout for our new house. We saw one yesterday that's a possibility, not far from our apartment in the East Hollywood Hills. So we're going there again on Sunday, with "our" contractors, a couple of old men whom we met through our realtor, and got to know during the process of almost buying the house with the wonderful view. Not only are they gay (not though you'd know it), but they're honest. Moreover they're a couple. One of them, JR, is French, and has a wonderful, stately, gentlemanly manner about him which instills you with confidence in his abilities. I know from other people's experiences that finding good contractors is one of the hardest things about renovating a house, so we consider ourselves very lucky. But whether we'll settle on a house this year is doubtful, not only because of the Holiday season, but also because we're flying to London on Christmas Day. And that will be a whole big new story in itself, since two days after Christmas, for the first time in my life, I'll take a boyfriend home to meet my Dad.