It's really strange living in London because you can pick up a gossip magazine and see some major celebrity - like Jamie Oliver, Scarlett Johansson or Robert De Niro - photographed somewhere you've just been.

There are stage shows starring Hollywood stars and restaurants frequented by absolute legends, and they're all down the road. Coming from New Zealand, you realise it really is a different world. And because famous people are everywhere in London, the celebrity obsession has reached top gear. It's ludicrous at times.

The worst example of this obsession comes in two papers called the London Lite and the London Paper, which are given to you (unless you can walk really fast with your head down) when entering tube stations or walking down the street. They deal quickly with the big issues of the day - half a page dedicated to the credit crunch or what Gordy Brown's been up to - and then they fill the other pages with lame stories and celebrity gossip.

Everything's a story. If a 'lady's man' like David Walliams or Russell Brand is pictured with a new blonde - that's news. If Lily Allen fell over drunk after leaving a club - that's news. If Madonna walked to the gym looking like she's actually 50 years old - that's news. If Kate Moss went to a concert - that's a full-page feature, alluding to her cocaine-sniffing past and her various break ups.

But there's one person who inspires pages of print no matter what she does. I played a little game when I first arrived in London. At that stage I was still getting the Lite and the Paper and flicking through them as I walked home. Every day I would see if Amy Winehouse appeared inside and every day she did. Each time I would swear they'd used yesterday's shot. She always looked like she was stumbling, she was always in various stages of undress, she always looked like a scarecrow which had just encountered an even scarier scarecrow, though surely such a sight didn't exist.

But most of all, she was always (and still is) being stalked by photographers while trying to do normal, everyday things. They don't leave her alone for a second. Captions will say: 'A messy Amy Winehouse leaves her Camden home at 3am'. They literally camped outside her flat. The story would be the same every day, repeated with the same 'clever' insights and blatant lies. It seemed as if some bored reporter was just copying and pasting yesterday's rubbish into today's template.

But this is where I have a sad confession to make. As much as I don't like the boring and tragic story of Wino, or her American counterpart Britney, when I see a celebrity myself I still get excited and can't believe my luck. It's sad, but true.

Last week my boyfriend Tim and I were walking along the river in Hammersmith when we noticed a small film crew pointed at a man outside a gastro pub. I took a closer look and nearly screamed. It was celebrity chef Gordon Ramsey, a man who appears on British television almost every night of the week - or so it seems.

I acted very uncool and was boisterously trying to tell Tim it was GORDON RAMSEY! And I even made sure we walked back the same way just to marvel at the man a second time. There was something very exciting about seeing his lined and weathered face in the flesh, even though when I see him on telly I almost groan from the sheer overexposure of the man.

However, that encounter was nothing compared to one I had in a pub near Paddington last month. I was having drinks with workmates when I saw Matt Lucas at the pub's entrance. I have never felt more like a small-time Kiwi in all my life. My workmates are all veteran Londoners and found it quite amusing when I nearly hyperventilated. But seriously! Matt Lucas, the portly bald one from Little Britain, is one of my favourite telly stars and I'd watched Little Britain obsessively. I could never get sick of Matt Lucas.

Luckily my very outgoing South African workmate talked me into approaching him. We drained our wine glasses for some courage and went to say hi, expecting him to politely tell us to leave him alone. But he was lovely! He told us about how he'd finished filming his new show Little Britain USA and we told him we'd just been to a work screening of Wall-E which he wanted to know all about. He said the new show was with the HBO network and I said something stupid like 'Oh I love HBO, they always pick up the best shows,' which I truly believe (they made Entourage and Curb Your Enthusiasm!) but which made me feel like a real celebrity arse-kisser.

I was so stoked by the encounter and I vowed to always choose reading a book over indulging myself in the trashy tube papers. The week I met Matt Lucas, he'd been in the news. The media was having a grand time analysing his marriage break-up, particularly because he had one of the UK's first gay marriages and was heading for the first gay divorce. They wrote with glee about the lack of pre-nup and the disaster that was enfolding.

Having to deal with everyone knowing your business must make the situation even harder. And they wonder why Amy Winehouse can't get herself together. I'm willing to bet that right now, on a drizzly London day, the paparazzi scumbags are parked outside her flat waiting for her to brave the weather (and the harrassment) to grab a bottle of milk.

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