Greetings from LA

I've never gotten used to The Miracle of Modern Aviation. It's always amazing when I get off a plane & find I'm somewhere else entirely different. This morning I hurried off the plane & headed to the customs hall at Terminal B at LAX. I'm always worried that some nasty customs officer will take one look & me & send me back where I came from or perhaps order a Strip Search. This is my probably twenty-third visit & nothing bad has ever happened yet. It just goes to show that Old Scripts Never Die.
I'm now ensconced with my friend Marge & her family. We're showing off all their rubbish & feeling Bad, even though we're smiling. We both remember growing up in Sydney during the sixties when our fathers' put out one modest metal garbage bin maybe twice a week. Our mothers wrapped kitchen waste in newspaper, there were no bin liners, salt replaced toothpaste if we ran out & dishwashers were only seen on 'Leave it to Beaver' or 'Father Knows Best.
There were no fancy cars or lightning visits to LA for Our Mums. No wonder they looked Sour