There is just something about Grand Central Station that grips us both, for we love it: the simple architecture, the style and the significance. It has survived, despite plans by the greedy to pull it down and build a skyscraper on the site, which is currently no more than three storeys high, at the most.

When this was proposed, many people opposed it, not least Jackie Kennedy Onassis, who commented with words that could easily resonate round Watford Town Hall this past 50 years, and many other town halls as well: "Is it not cruel to let our city die by degrees, stripped of all her proud monuments, until there will be nothing left of all her history and beauty to inspire our children? If they are not inspired by the past of our city, where will they find the strength to fight for her future? Americans care about their past, but for short-term gain they ignore it and tear down everything that matters. Maybe… this is the time to take a stand, to reverse the tide, so that we won't all end up in a uniform world of steel and glass boxes.”

The good thing is that her view won through and we have enjoyed Grand Central whenever we have gone to New York or, as singer Mary Chapin Carpenter would have it: “Grand, Central Stay-shun”, in the song of that name. I was reminded of the song, travelling down the commuter line to our base at friend Malcolm’s in Chappaqua and passing so many station car parks. Lots of those car parks contained cars left perhaps hurriedly on the blue-sky morning sunshine of 9/11 as commuters headed for New York and the Twin Towers of the Trade Centre, never to return.

I could project Moor Park, Northwood Hills, Preston Road, etc as I thought of those cars being left there for days and weeks with police tickets upon them, stressing they belonged to victims.

Mary Chapin Carpenter wrote the song about the rescue workers, after watching a programme on television. Her words are far better than anything I can muster (see interview and song on Youtube “Mary Chapin Carpenter tells story about 9/11 that inspired Grand Central Station" song).

We had travelled to Grand Central for a visit to the Guggenheim. I am not in the remotest sense a fan of modern art, but I do go back every now and again to try and wrestle with it and understand. (I do much the same with the Sex Pistol’s seminal album, which I still don’t get, much the same as an unmade bed, a pile of rubbish or some bricks, do not register with me as art).

There were some vibrant works by Vasily Kaandinsky, which Ellie thoroughly enjoyed, and I found them colourful and eye-catching but was otherwise no wiser. However, the conceptual art of Doris Salcedo, I found rather hard to take. It is described as “searing and deeply poetic” as she laments the fate of so many who have died at the hands of Columbian police etc.

My wife thought the upturned tables stacked on top of each other with an oblong box of earth between them, prompting grass to grow between the slats, was starkly effective. Was the grass a symbol of the regenertion of life? I had trouble “getting it” all. Wardrobes with chairs fused onto their sides, or tables blended with chairs, did not provoke thoughts of police brutality in my book or reflect the victims.

The experience had me walking swiftly into the gallery of the Impressionist paintings, which I truly enjoyed but where I was surprised was that I actually appreciated some of Picasso’s more traditional work. 

I remain an artistic philistine I suppose but I am comfortable in my ignorance but, as at the Guggenheim, I do try and broaden my horizon.

The first few days in the USA, we re-acquainted ourselves with the pace and attitudes. Our English accents go down very well. One man told us how much he loved our accents but how did we describe the accents used by the UK equivalent of Rednecks? It transpires he watches the English soccer programmes but has trouble with certrain managers. “I can tell they are talking English, but I can’t tell what the hell they are saying.”

They haven’t heard Jamie Carragher yet, but football is certainly catching on in schools and on television. It was strange, the day after we arrived, we went for breakfast, did some shopping and returned in the early afternoon to sit down and see Manchester City’s and United’s opening group match defeats in Europe, broadcast in the entirety. The first Saturday, we returned around 4.30pm in the afternoon from Boston, for Malcolm to tell us Watford had beaten Newcastle and City had lost at home to West Ham.

“If you fancy it, I am back from church around 9.15 on Sunday morning. We can drop down to the diner for breakfast and then come back and watch Southampton v Man U at 10.30 before you head out at lunchtime,” he said. It was a very agreeable Sunday, for we followed that with shopping at stores in the afternoon. En route we noted the new road signs informing drivers: “Text Area in two miles” and warning others; “You can wait to text for two miles.” The standard rest areas have been renamed “Rest and Text Area”.

The American who has trouble understanding English soccer managers' accents, had two very bouncy, attractive puppies on leads. The last time we were in the US, down in the south-west, we came across a number of attractive, bouncy puppies that turned out to be pit bulls.

Apparently pit-bull fighting, like the cock-fighting of old, is a big underground sport over here.

Malcolm also informed us the politically correct brigade have set up multiples across the States.

“Have you heard it is now Snow White and her seven little friends. Apparently you cannot say dwarves. And do you know who are the most upset by this? The dwarves who claim they are being discriminated against because they are finding work hard to get as there is no longer any call for dwarves.”

I wonder if Lord of the Rings will become a banned book one day. Jackie Kennedy’s words came back to me as she painted a picture of an anodine world without the quirky or originality; everything politically correct, polite and boring. Personally, when Ba Ba Black Sheep and being in a black mood were dubbed racist, the thought should have been ridiculed then and there. Instead, the thought police are growing in strength.

But enough of the vertically challenged, the biggest problem is the horizontally challenged: the obese and the downright disgustingly fat. We saw one young woman in trousers and top, who must have weighed in around 30 stone, making a thigh-chafing walk labouriously across the car park. As I pointed out to Ellie, I found it surprising the girl had put ribbons in her hair that morning. To do that, you have to care about your appearance and look in a mirror. Didn’t two tons of pennies drop?

In a buffet breakfast diner, a fat woman and her fat 12-year-old son, shared ten full plates of breakfast and allied food.

Apparently fire brigades across America are called only too regularly to take windows out and winch fat people down to the street. Judging by the plethora of fast food outlets in the States and the size of the portions, it is worrying that we in Britain ape them, with so many families opting for take-away pizzas etc and not good nutritional food.

Fortunately I am not tempted by McDonalds and those of a similar ilk. Even more fortunately, they don’t have Dunkin’ Donuts in our French neck of the woods.