On one occasion they invited us to watch a football game at their base ten miles away, so when the appointed day arrived, we sent off.

Gigantic American cars - dozens of them filled with faces, overtook our family Ford on the road. Every mile or so our four excited children chimed "Are we nearly there, now?" "Not much further, dears" I replied, using one of my stock phrases for car journeys. After a few more miles we took our place at the end of a long, slowly moving line of cars, all being shepherded into parking spaces by big, patient American policemen.

"Here we are" I said, brightly stepping out to find myself ankle deep in sticky mud. "Mind where you put your feet." Our eldest boy, who, let me put on record, has never been known to look on the bright side, turned to Daddy with "Well, we'll never get out of here, Dad." "Let's not worry about that until the time comes," was his reply.

We squelched our way towards the stands and on the grassy banks the going was easier. Forming a human chain we pressed on through the crowd searching for our friends - strangers in strange lands never felt stranger than we did that day. We crossed the end of the field and began to scan the sea of faces on the other side.

Finding myself the object of slightly amused though friendly stares I soon reached the conclusion that attired as I was in a fur coat, boots and a hat, I was outrageously overdressed. The recognised outfit appears to be zipper jacket, bright neckerchief, jeans and flatties.

It wasn't long before our American friends found us and we took our seats high above the sideline with only five minutes to spare. The atmosphere was electric, a terrific buzz developed rapidly into a roar heralding the arrival of the players for a pre-match practice.

There were at least fifty of them, each one looking like a schoolboy's idea of 'The Man from Outer Space', complete with face guard, head protector and shoulder pads like motor-bike seats. They sprinted about, bounded up and down, touched their toes and flung themselves headlong onto the ground amid the cheers of the crowd, the blowing of whistles, and the furious ringing of handbells.

Someone must have given a signal, though I admit I neither heard nor saw it, for within minutes the pitch was cleared, the teams chosen, and the reserve players seated themselves on the touchline below us.

On ran the teams and each man took up his position; just one or two stood upright; the remainder bent double with straddled legs, looking like grotesque upholstered tripods.

ACTION, the ball was in view for one fleeting second, and players hurled themselves on each other with reckless abandon. The crowd shrieked with delight, and the referee threw down a brilliant red handkerchief. Now the spectators were on their feet and I saw, approaching along the sideline a small procession of bare-kneed gentlemen, bearing, not like the little flags of English linesmen, but long poles with chains dragging behind them. What magic was this? "Custom", Madeline whispered, because the standing crowd was now deadly quiet. So I too was silent. They proceeded in a leisurely and precise manner to measure out a piece of ground, and that done, play recommenced.

Presently the players must have performed whatever manoeuvre was necessary to break the spell, for suddenly the spectators sat down as one man, and the cheering began again, if anything louder than before.

All the players were big men, but the giant of them was a coloured man - he could have picked up any two of the other men on the field and thrown them clean over the goalposts. I noticed that when he was tackled it was invariably by half a dozen players, rarely singlehanded. The ovation he received whenever he gained a yard or so for his team was deafening.

From high over my shoulder I caught the sound of a loudspeaker. "Great Scot", I thought, "Someone is trying to give a commentary above all this din!" Perhaps it was being relayed to America, if so, I only hoped they could hear it there - we couldn't.

There was an extra long, extra loud, blast on a whistle; play stopped and the teams left the field. Surely not half-time already? "No, quarter time," I was informed. This was the cue for the onlookers to fortify themselves at the refreshment stalls behind the goal line. Away went all the Dads to return with mountains of steaming hamburgers, bags of popcorn, and tins of Coca Cola peeping from every pocket.

Young airmen climbed down in pairs to collect crates of canned beer and several times when lanky legs brushed past me I almost lost my hat, and was in danger of being crowned with one of those crates.

In spite of having eaten large lunches only an hour before, my children ate and drank with the rest, enjoying the novelty of drinking from tin cans especially.

Then came my first and only experience of Cheer Leaders. Three gay, glamorous girls dressed entirely in white, each carrying a megaphone urged the crowd to spur on the Home Side to victory with a catchy ditty .......

The 'Hampden Roar' had nothing on this last ear-splitting shout.

Somehow the next quarter of the game, the third, and the last, seemed like repetitions of the first to me.

During half-time an English band played - not very well - but the Americans showed their appreciation as only Americans can - they applauded it's mascot - a Shetland Pony which was led protesting at every step - for an entire circuit of the field.

By three-quarter time the beer drinkers were ready to cheer at the drop of a hat. They roared when a sticky-faced toddler (not one of mine this time) wandered onto the field bringing the game to an abrupt halt and cheered madly when a burly policeman retrieved the tiny offender.

The end came amidst tremendous applause and the weary players left the battle-ground. The crowd began to disperse; we said our goodbyes, and picked our way through heaps of empty cans and litter of all description back to the car. The mud had dried in the bitter east wind so we had no difficulty in driving away.

Who won the Match? Well, with a secret thrill, I learned from the newspapers next day that the Home Side had been victorious.

One day I intend to learn more about this bewildering game. Do you think I've exaggerated this account? Perhaps just a little, for instance the big coloured man was only 6 feet 5 inches tall, and weighed 225 pounds (16 stone 1 pound in our language) according to the programme which is in our Scrap Book. He was Alex Sullivan. His pal Robert Little was only 6 feet 4 inches, and was an End, whatever that is!

The Americans very kindly printed this account in the Base Magazine, Centurion, under the heading 'A British Housewife asks ANYONE FOR FOOTBALL?' This too is in the Scrap Book.

American women are fascinating. They appear never to be content unless they belong to half a dozen committees and personally give a 'shower' once in a while. Their 'Committeeitis', for want of a better word, strikes young and old alike. The more church and social work they take on, the more their friends praise them and the more they are expected to take on until they come to the impossible position where family takes place all the time.

Amongst my acquaintances one young mother broke down under the strain and several others showed sign of nervous disorder. Personally I wonder why their husbands don't do something - anything - to stop this mad race to the Psychiatric Clinic - or are they more 'henpecked' than their English counterparts.

Now let me explain a 'shower'. Not long ago I had the pleasure of attending a 'handkerchief shower' given by two young wives for a mutual friend who was shortly returning to the States with her husband and three sons. A beautifully printed invitation gave me the date, the time, and the place, and requested that I bring a gift of 'one Kerchief'.

There were no less than twenty guests each with a tiny present, some wrapped in cellophane, some plain, some embroidered, some with elaborate lace edgings, and mine - a fancy one for show, and a plain linen one 'for a blow'.

The hostesses moved daintily about handing round cookies (biscuits) doughnuts and scones, and filling our cups with delicious American coffee. The Guest of Honour was quite overcome by the profusion of gifts and good wishes, and I enjoyed this peep into another world.

'Showers' are given not only for farewells, but for engagements and weddings too. And the nicest and most useful must surely be the 'shower' for a 'happy event' when all the guests arrive bearing tiny garments, bootees, baby lotions and powders.

This happy practice is something I would like to see adopted here in England. Small wonder that the Americans are renowned the World over for their friendliness and generosity.

I like to think that in my small sphere over a period of nearly nine years - Anglo-American relations are perfect. Ron and I have entertained them by showing them the Ideal Home Exhibition, County Cricket and even a day at the seaside amongst other things. Their children have been a constant source of pleasure as well as an education to us, and we miss them very much whenever a family departs for their native land. Some we will never see again, others will return to be welcomed as old friends.

Perhaps when our own family have 'flown the nest', we ourselves might visit our 'American Cousins'. Until then we continue the task of bringing up our own youngsters.