As you read this week's column, I will be visiting England. After not going back for more than a year, I have the dubious pleasure of returning twice in the space of three weeks thanks to my thoughtless best friend who considered only her own needs when planning her wedding. You'd think after waiting 50 years for her first marriage, she could have waited another three weeks when we were due to go back anyway, but no. With these brides it's all me, me, me!

I'm writing this week's column by hand in a tiny notebook on a plane bound for England. The book is tiny because my seat doesn't allow room for me and anything as grand as a normal sheet of paper, let alone a laptop. My knees are only moments away from knocking my teeth out as the passenger in front of me is reclining. My book is resting on a plastic shelf laughingly referred to as a table. It's 3 o'clock in the morning, so the only light is being beamed from above my head as if I am being interrogated.

In my never ending mission to see all sides of American culture, we recently attended possibly their most uncultured event - the ball game. If you are expecting to read a sports report, I suggest you turn a few more pages. All I know is for three hours, two baseball teams pitched and occasionally hit balls.

I thought I liked shopping as much as the next person. But when that next person's my daughter, Abi, just leave me alone with a pile of bags in Starbucks any day.