There goes the alarm - for the first time since leaving England I've slept through until 8am. How useless; my body clock's adjusted just in time to leave. Excited to be going home, I look out of the window and rain is cascading down.

Oh happy day!! An email announcing 'You're coming home’ jumps out of my inbox. It’s not been doom and gloom having adventures in the sunshine with lovely people, but when it’s unexpected and compounds an already heavy schedule, well then it has its own stresses and strains.

Another day, another hotel room, the fifth in ten days. I'm feeling pretty shattered again having now worked 13 days straight without a day off, but there's no rest for the wicked. Am up at seven and start the day speaking to Caroline in our travel agents who is hopeful that light is at the end of the tunnel. Even as we speak the news is coming in that British airspace should open soon.

Finally, a decent sleep; all six hours of it. But at least I'm reasonably refreshed. Today I was meant to drive back to LA, drop the car at the airport and fly home with four features in four different publications covering three different artists done and dusted. It hasn’t quite worked out like that. However, overnight I’ve had confirmation from the UK office that heading to Vegas is now the best option so I get in touch with Duff and Jacqui to make arrangements to hit the road. Our return flight is now changed to Thursday if British airspace reopens and with a firm plan now in place, we’re all quite relieved. However we’re all snowed under with work and it’s a good three hours before I can pack the laptop away, check out and drive across to the Comfort Suites, on the other side of Palm Desert. Jacqui is still filing copy for The Sun as I arrive, her deadlines looming with inexorable haste.

What is it with sleeping on trips? It's 7.30 and I'm awake, having managed just over three hours. Desperate for even an hour's more rest I fitfully doze but with the zzzz's eluding me I'm out of bed far earlier than I should be. At least the hotel provide breakfast so I go to investigate.

Oh God, it's Saturday morning, I’ve had four hours sleep and wake up with the stiffest neck from being hunched on a sofa. The room is filled with the sounds of light snoring from the two beds next to me. I can’t get back to sleep so after a while I check the blackberry and learn that the travel situation is now even worse, Johnny hasn’t been able to get to the US and my entire reason for being here at this festival has evaporated, along with the final part of the Corinne Bailey Rae feature. I’ve got hotel rooms booked for myself and Johnny for the next two nights here in Palm Desert which have to be paid for so there’s no point in returning to LA. It’s also looking almost certain that I won’t be coming home on Monday.

There's a certain inevitabilty in the air, a cloud of doubt and confusion hanging above us, a mixture of frustration and volcanic ash that's conspiring to take the best laid plans and turn them to dust.

Bolt upright at 5.30am! I thought I'd broken the back of the jetlag but no such luck. It's obvious that sleep has deserted me so I switch on the blackberry to catch up on emails before breakfast. It almost goes into meltdown. The impact of the volcano on various colleagues and journalist's travel plans is severe. How crazy is this - we were only joking about it mere hours go.

Another early morning, another breakfast, another few hours bashing away on the computer in the sunshine firing off emails and replies, setting things up, chasing responses to projects and so on.

Ah, this is the life. A typical LA breakfast – granola, fresh fruit, yoghurt, OJ, strong coffee – and then getting stuck into a hard day at the office; the office being 75 degrees by the pool. Both Paul and I whip out our laptops and for three hours or so the pair of us sit side by side on sun loungers, plugged into our virtual worlds, headphones playing the new Lady Antebellum album to familiarise ourselves fully with our subjects, as he writes an article and I wade through the 127 emails that have appeared overnight.

A fine night's sleep, over all too soon, as at 7am I have to meet Eli in the hotel lobby. I’d agreed the night before to cover his parking charges for the hire car on my expenses, as otherwise he’d have to do an artist invoice to EMI and wait for reimbursement. However my helpfulness proves my undoing as the hotel informed me at midnight that I’d have to pay in person when Eli checks out and – lucky old me – he’s on an early flight to New York. So here I am, wiping sleep from my eyes and handing over the company credit card to save him the hassle of $69.

Ah jetlag, jetlag. What joy. Wide awake soon after dawn I decide to head to the gym, which is a good move seeing as the breakfast I'm later faced with is smothered in unexpected cheese and comes with a side order of fried potatoes. I try to resist but who am I kidding?!? When in America you gotta go large, and so Tom, Eli and I tuck in with gusto.

06.30: a flashing LED and demonic beeping breaks into my blissful narcoleptic slumber. It's a Saturday and instead of a lie in to be followed by a gloriously sunny weekend of conviviality (Coman is off to a glam lunch to celebrate our friend Sharon's 40th) I'm cramming a bit of musesli down my throat and slurping tea whilst finishing the last of my packing.