Allow me to steer you as far away from the old US of A as possible on this particular Tuesday.
When world events threaten to crowd your thoughts, it is sometimes good to hunker down and disappear into a very insular British world of days-gone-by for a good wallow.
I had a head start on the self-indulgent wallow a couple of days ago when I had an unexpected 20-minute interval to myself between work and taxiing The Teenager.
I set off for a brisk constitutional.
As my regular reader knows, I am not a great believer in nature or the outdoors in general.
However, I was won over almost immediately on this walk as I passed a country house where someone was burning leaves.
I smelled the burning leaves and was transported back to childhood, when a bonfire in the garden seemed to be a regular occurrence in autumn.
I could feel myself walking back from school, kicking the crisp leaves and passing the bonfire before sitting in front of Magpie (ask your grandparents) with a piece of toast.
It gave me a pang of missing my late dad when I noticed a chap in a wax jacket feeding the leaves to the fire, as my dad used to be out in our garden in a wax jacket, happily raking leaves and putting precious conkers aside for us children to fight over later.
There’s nothing quite like an evocative smell to transport you.
I know everyone says they love the smell of burning leaves and freshly-cut grass etc but that’s the first time I’ve had such a strong and immediate reaction.
Probably an age thing.
It’s left me wanting more of those comforting flashbacks, so I’ll be spending as much time as possible today trying not to worry about the fate of the world post-US election.
Instead I shall be seeking out real fires made using slightly mossy wood; tinned tomato soup with grated cheddar; the inside of a greenhouse after rain and the strong cough sweets favoured by my grandfather.
Some new-fangled Danish types might call this kind of wallowing “hygge”. I call it self-preservation.