We had just emerged from the New York subway, found a diner, placed our order for a late breakfast and waited for it to arrive.

“Well that’s burst my balloon,” said my wife, Ellie. It took a few seconds before I sussed she was role-playing with mock-indignation.

“The bitch! Offering me a seat in the subway. I mean, do I look old? I am wearing clothes from Zara and tinted glasses, which also cover up a few 'worry' lines,” said Ellie in her same injured vein, and who is still the right side of 70 and removes just six grey hairs from her head every six weeks.

The lady who had offered Ellie a seat was probably in her late 30s. Ellie had declined with what could have been interpreted as a smile. However, an African-American man, promptly stood up and insisted Ellie should sit, which she did with an expression of gratitude.

We had attended a wedding in the UK four days earlier, during which I was told that I did not look 74, but more like 64. It was nice to hear but it does not make much difference because, in the final accounting, I am still 74. I too was brought down to earth when the lady whose offer had been declined by Ellie, then volunteered to give up her seat for me.

I declined with thanks, while reflecting obviously I look potentially infirm.

I looked around the car and my eyes alighted on a smiling man who was looking at me. I smiled back. Obviously he thought it a huge joke that someone around 6ft 4ins should be offered a seat by a woman perhaps 35 years younger.

I noticed he was wearing a t-shirt announcing the fact: “I love my liver.”

It seemed a strange thing to say. There are parts of my body I am quite fond of, mostly because they have been with me a number of years and are still reasonably reliable. I am not so sure I love any of them, although probably Ellie would argue there are some I love too much.

Either way, I cannot imagine having any of them reproduced on the face of a t-shirt, stating that I love it.

Later, I discovered the back of his t-shirt was more explanatory, in that it publicised the USA Liver Foundation and the Walk for Life.

We had flown out of Heathrow on Monday afternoon, some 12 days ago. By chance we had arrived over three hours early for our 5.30pm flight, which, it transpired, had been postponed until 10am the next day. Technical problems had delayed its departure from JFK. Clearly, everyone else had received an advice by email informing them the flight had been postponed, judging by the fact we appeared to be the only passengers surprised by the event.

We were instructed to visit the Virgin desk and during the next half-an-hour, no one formed a queue behind us, which was further proof the other 5.30pm passengers had been told in advance of the cancellation.

However, as luck would have it, there were seats on the 4pm and we were seated for that flight, although they had to get through to Atlanta, because the computer refused to update our tickets.

Time was running short so one of the officials came with me effectively to check in our luggage. Then, when Atlanta cracked the code, we were propelled to the priority security gate, where the rich and the celebrities are indulged. Incidentally, that still does not preclude one from a body search: ask Diana Ross.

So I did not have time to ponder whether Isis had targeted our flight, before we were speeding down the Reading by-pass - or that is how it felt as they take so long to get airborne.

Virgin had paid for me to call our pal Malcolm to ask to be picked up earlier and seven hours later we were touching down and welcomed to JFK. Immigration, which is usually such a pain was a breeze. You can have more hold-ups at Luton or Stansted.

We headed out to what, on our third visit, is familiar country to Chappaqua, which is beyond Harlem, Scottsdale, Hawthorne, Valhalla and Pleasantville - stations we have learnt by rote when heading in and out of New York itself. We dropped into the latter small town and had a bite to eat at the diner: two eggs over-easy, crispy bacon and hash browns plus a few coffee refills.

A couple of bottles of Samuel Adams beer with Malcolm was followed by a much postponed appointment with the bed.

I nurse the impression that New York State comprises one large forest with trees cleared to allow roads to be built through it and various small towns nestling among the forest. Most of the houses are wood-built but otherwise there are many impressive mansions: a kind of Moor Park with space. The nearest neighbour is a minimum 40 yards away. TV personality, businesswoman and cook Martha Stewart lives in the locality, judging by the number of photos on the walls of various Indian restaurants she has attended.

I asked Malcolm what made him choose Chappaqua, just a mile or so from the Reader’s Digest retreat and two miles from the Clintons' residence.

He worked as a money broker in New York and discovered his boss lived in the north and most of the colleagues had opted for New Jersey. Malcolm felt he saw enough of them at work, and opted for a home in the opposite direction and has lived there happily, nestling in the trees, ever since. It is a long way from the tenements and projects of New York.

He opted out of the money game some years back and became much happier as a jobbing builder/gardener, working mainly on his own.

As you might deduce, not too many people have been welcomed past Malcolm’s threshold, so we feel honoured but then our friendship goes back some 55 years.