They chew tobacco, like, for real, dude

Well, quite frankly I don't have to see anymore of America because I've met a 23-year-old tobacco chewer and my work here is done.

Liz, true to her word, picked me up from the airport with a cask of wine, labelled 'sunset blush', so I knew it was quality. She was accompanied by Evan and Tom and apparently we were off on a road trip. To some places that I had sort of even heard of. Like DC. However, about 90 minutes in, Evan started feeling unwell so it was decided that it would be better if we just got a hotel in Orlando (about an hour from where Liz lives) to hang out and do feck all for a bit. We were all agreeable to doing nothing so we did it immediately and with gusto. Nice resort hotel with spa bath and pool and hot tub and space travel and kitchen. Five days of cooked breakfasts consisting of bacon and sausages and eggs and waffles and maple syrup and now Penelope is pudgy. I even jumped on the scales at the supermarket and despite not knowing exactly how pounds translate into kilos, I knew the news was bad. Am now in denial and quaffing wine because it's, well it's not non-fattening but it certainly makes me feel better.

After five days we came back to Ormond beach where it is Biketober week. Thousands of motorcyclists with huge, shiny, glistening bikes roaring round, being, like, you know, bikers.

Liz's flatmate already had guests so we're all crashing at another friend's house. They are all very nice about the fact that often I don't make sense and have quite the potty mouth. I sucked up like no one's business and roasted some chooks for dinner.

Bizarre things keep giving me hysterics (such as the tobacco chewer who carved the chooks up for me - he called them turkeys, the fact that everything is prepackaged/pre-cooked, that so many of the bikers are so very, very large, and someone called me ma'am).

I've got fleas again. USA ROCKS.