Shall I tell you an American story, Twitter? Well, it's two, ish. It might be five. Not sure yet.

Bad luck. Anyway. I LOVE America. And America has been hard to love recently.

The first time I ever went to America, I was 23 I spent 6 weeks working in New York. I flew from Gatwick, in the rain, with five hundred dollars in my handbag from our father, and who shouted CABS, ONLY CABS! NOT THE FUCKING SUBWAY as some sort of farewell, god love him.

Gatwick. American. Can you even imagine? Anyway. I got in to JFK and got a cab from the taxi rank. A great big yellow cab. I may have mentioned his before but I'm from rural Lincolnshire and I have never been in a taxi.

HAD, ffs, you infernal machine.

It was about 4 in the afternoon and the cab had a speaker right behind your ear that said, 'CHRIS ROCK SAYS BUCKLE UP' and I thought Jesus Christ, the suspension on this car is shot, and held onto my handbag tighter than a duck's chuff.

Work put me up here! https://www.affinia.com/gardens-suites-hotel/ Wow. 20 years ago, that studio apartment had a copper gas pipe running straight across the oven door. Within 24 hours I discovered that you can't buy butter in Manhattan, which is distressing in itself, and that it's a village.

The doorman gave me a bichon frise to walk (Charles) and off we went, peeping at all the sights of New York in September. He also told me to spend my dinner money at either Luna or Gotham, where I was treated like royalty.

On my nights off, I watched that massive PBS documentary on the Kennedys, or NYPD Blue and ate 'takeout'. Takeout. Trust me when I say I've groomed a LOT of late 90s Manhattan takeway menus.

Still have an 'abiding affection' for Jimmy Smits. HOWEVER, that's another matter. Because you see, what I am trying to express, badly, as ever, is that America is not the risible shitshow the world has endured for these past four years.

I was working in Dallas when Bush was elected. The Dallas Hilton. It's on the freeway, and that morning I split my skirt getting into the inevitable cab to take me to work. Right up the crupper. My driver and I laughed for at least ten minutes. Total, helpless laughter.

That evening I couldn't get the telly in my room, and went downstairs and all the staff were in the restaurant with the tv on, and we sat all the way through, until Florida, and then we all made breakfast together.

I must still apologise for those eggs by the way.

That week a man of stupendous millions invited me to a rodeo as his son's English date, and they were the nicest people you can possibly imagine and their son and I had to try to rein in the giggling.

I also sat on a warehouse rooftop in Deep Ellum as the designated driver for work, which I can assure you is the least fun four hours you've never spent.

Don't even get me started on Chicago. But all of this is rubbish. My nostalgia butters no parsnips. The point is, and was, that America doesn't need anyone to make her great, she is great.

Which is something that's come close to forgotten. Mr I and I were in the total shit in Baltimore during the aftermath of Katrina, and we got the train to Washington for a day out. $48 the two of us, return.

(An aside, American trains are v nice, aren't they.) Because if we didn't one of us was going to commit a crime. We trudged around Washington, doing all the stuff you're supposed to do, which you can't really do on foot, which is annoying.

But the thing I remember from that day - apart from Mr I saying the White House was surprisingly small scale, which it is - was people getting off Greyhound buses with their lives in a carrier bag.

A carrier bag. I mean, I have to drag a bus like something out of World's Strongest Man in order to leave the house.

I promise you I will leave you with this one. My first solo work dinner in the US was a group thing where my oppo was a confirmed bachelor and I was so terrified by the prices I couldn't speak. He grabbed my hand and shouted, 'We'll have the sea bass!'