He put a few biscuits on a plate and added them to the tray. He would sit in and listen to the conversation. For some reason he didn’t fancy confronting the two men. They looked as if they could take good care of themselves.

George got off the plane and smiled at the hostesses. He walked down the flight of stairs and lifted his face to the bright Florida sun. He was in America. Before he knew what was going on he had collected his luggage, changed some money and was on a courtesy bus to Lindo’s car rental on Sandlake Road.

The driver of the bus was a large man in a leather baseball hat with ‘Chicago Bulls’ in blood red lettering across the front. His voice had a slow southern drawl and George was enjoying listening to it. It was so American.

‘Orlando Airport is one of only three airstrips that is capable of landing the Space Shutle in an emergency. As y’all know, Kennedy Space Centre is only twenty minutes’ drive from here, so if ever the shuttle missed its target, we could land it here, safe and sound.’ He paused for maximum effect then continued, ‘If you look out of your window on the left you will see a B52 bomber. This was used in the Vietnam War and is now here purely for ornamental purposes.’

George stared enthralled at the bomber, as did most of the little boys on the bus.

‘In England I understand you see dead cats and rabbits on your highways. Well, here in Florida, don’t be surprised to find baby ’gators flattened in the middle of the road. The ’gators are night creatures by nature and are very rarely seen during the daylight hours. They provide a natural security for the Space Centre, as you can imagine.’ He paused again and everyone laughed nervously.

‘But if you go to Gatorland you can have your photo taken with them and see the ’gator wrestlin’. Refreshments are provided there and you can even eat ’gator burgers.’

George listened enraptured. Oh, why hadn’t he come here before?

The journey from Orlando Airport to Lindo’s took only ten minutes and he and the other passengers were soon standing on a large lot, with their cases at their feet, waiting for their designated cars. George gave his papers to a tall slim black man and gasped with surprise when he returned driving a Chevrolet Caprice. In America this was a small compact car; to George it was on a par with a Porsche or a Ferrari.

The black man in his Lindo’s overalls showed him how to open the boot, or trunk as he called it, how to put the car on automatic cruising, how the lights worked and where the fuel tank was.

George listened raptly, smiling incessantly. The man stowed his case in the trunk and shook his head at George’s obvious pleasure.