Bring on the comedy lobsters

I have just come back from Boston, Massachusetts, where the leaves remained stubbornly green rather than glowing in fiery shades of red, orange and yellow as they should in the autumn. Still, the sun shone and it was perfect touring weather. The first thing dedicated tourists do in Boston is to embark on the Freedom Trail, which leads you through the city, stopping at important historic locations along the way, including an awful lot of “burying grounds” full of people obviously revered by Americans but unknown to me. It’s a great introduction to the historic centre, but somewhat challenging for British people, who find themselves portrayed as the villains at every turn. Who stood between the brave settlers and their freedom? Who imposed taxation without representation on the innocent populace? Who got cross when crates of tea were dumped into the harbour? It was me – I confess.

After the physical and mental exertion of the Freedom Trail, we decided what was needed was a duck tour. I’d never been in a bus that could also float on water and the rainbow-painted boat on wheels was too wonderfully tacky to be missed. The jolly guide, who was sporting rainbow-coloured clothes to match his vehicle, turned out to be a reformed financial adviser, so there is still hope that I might find a late-in-life career. We were relieved when he discovered early on that we were English and toned down his anti-British rhetoric – we’d been worried that he might incite the duck-boat hordes against us.

New England has a reputation for culture and refinement – it is the home of Harvard and Yale after all – but you wouldn’t know it from the souvenirs I managed to collect. I bagged a glass pumpkin, as well as two comedy lobsters to go on my Christmas tree. Bostonians are seemingly obsessed with lobsters, but I don’t think the lobsters are quite so keen on them. But you have to love the Boston accent. They say “hairbour” instead of “harbour”, just like Cliff, the mailman in Cheers, although they probably leave out the “u”. There was a queue to get into the Cheers bar, but I knew Frasier and gang wouldn’t be inside, so there didn’t seem much point.

I do love visiting the States – Americans are so interesting. I’m always fascinated to see them stand to attention with their hands on their hearts when singing the national anthem. They have a pride in their country and history that the English seem to lack, as we shuffle around the world apologising for the British Empire. We were having breakfast in our favourite coffee shop when a group of young women wearing George Washington wigs (although one was dressed as Abraham Lincoln with a top hat and his distinctive facial hair) came giggling through the door. I was overcome with curiosity and asked why they were dressed like that. It turned out they were on a “bachelorette party”. Maybe Abraham Lincoln was the bride? Can you imagine British women on a hen do wearing red, curly Elizabeth I wigs or Margaret Thatcher’s coiffed hair and pussy bow blouse? Those American girls just don’t know how it’s done – not an inflatable groom or even a comedy lobster in sight.