Detroit this week, and I really have to say this is a change of scene. Usually we go to places where nothing but the best is on offer, so Detroit is a real eye opener as it has absolutely nothing on offer as far as I can see. Unless you’re a complete hippy and want to make it yourself. We met some very alarming people who spend their time trying to make Detroit better by pulling down old, rotten houses and growing organic produce on the vacant land. In England that would be an absolute crime. What is history if not a crumbling, dilapidated old building? America, you had a chance for some culture and you bulldozed it to the ground in order to grow kale, I ask you. Having said that, tearing down a house is great fun. I would never stand for that sort of thing happening to Caunty but there is something thrilling about ripping out a building’s structural support and smashing away at it with a hammer. Obviously not so good if you end up trapped in your self-made debris. So always remember, safety first. Lucky for us there was a very officious man there who made sure that we all knew when to stop (as soon as we started having any fun). Poppy hates deprivation. She finds it so boring. So we had to throw our hands up eventually and admit that we needed a little bit of joy and culture. Poppy had started her nervous habit of pulling out her body hair again, and seeing as she’s already as smooth as a nectarine everywhere else I wanted to make sure she had some relief before she ended up with no eyebrows. So off we went to the ballet. This time we were to be the dancers, not the audience. I had never realized how freeing it could be to express oneself through the medium of dance. I felt like a beautiful bird on the wing, flying gracefully side by side with my sister, swooping, swaying and floating gently on the breeze. My tights were a bit see-through though, which I didn’t notice until later. Poppy, of course, was a complete natural and she really bonded with Eric, our teacher. If only we could take Eric back to Norfolk. I think Mummy would love him. She loves her theatrical sorts. Finally we ended our trip with a visit to a professional wrestling match. We met with the organizer of the event: a wrestler named Truth Martini. I think wrestling may have taken a toll on him brain-wise as he didn’t seem to be able to dress himself properly. I don’t understand these things at all. Father used to say that real men speak with their fists, but this wrestler chappy seemed to talk from the mouth rather a lot. Some of it couldn’t be ignored by a decent chap who was chaperoning his sister, and I’m afraid I had to let my fist do the answering. Now, I don’t feel good about backhanding every commoner who steps out of line but I must admit, I do feel a bit more manly as a result. Until next week.