San Antonio, TX

I don't have children. There are a number of reasons why but it's fair to say a sense of freedom, compulsive tidiness, a lovely lifestyle, biology and a distinct lack of paternal instincts rank high amongst them. And it's always seemed to me that friends and family who do have young kids seem to be running on a default setting of general exhaustion at all times.

But while my husband and I (how very royal!) are happily free of babies screaming, toddlers throwing tantrums, six-year olds bouncing on our bed or teenagers rolling home at all hours, sleep deprivation seems to play an inordinately large role in my life, brought on by being the kind of sucker who doesn't have children so ends up working all the hours that God sends.

Having only just returned from a hectic trip to New York on Monday with Sky Ferreira, our new pop superstar in waiting - going directly from airport to office to complete a full day's work - I was pitched straight back onto the relentless hamster-wheel of a non-stop schedule which culminated in attending last night's Mojo Honours List with Sigur Ros, the recipients of a well-deserved Outstanding Contribution To Music award.

So by the time I hit the sack at gone midnight, I could have slept until half-past Tuesday. Jet-lag and a seemingly endless stream of fourteen-hour working days providing a parallel insight into the zombified parental state... without the cuddles, smiles, nappies and vomit.

Yet here I am, just a few hours later, sat on a plane heading to Chicago - a city I visited just two months ago - at the start of another extended jaunt around the western hemisphere, taking in 7 flights, 4 cities, 3 gigs, 2 countries, one photoshoot, a very exclusive party, an island paradise and a beach. All in ten days and spread over three time-zones. With a heap of work still needing to be done on other projects as I go along.

35,869 feet below me is the Atlantic, an ocean I've now crossed more than fifty times, and 13 hours and 4,500 miles ahead of me lies tonight's eventual destination, San Antonio in the state of Texas. But I get ahead of myself...

With a ridiculously early start, I decided a minicab to Heathrow was the best option. Load my bags in the boot and collapse on the back seat to snooze for the 90-minute ride rather than negotiate the tubes and trains in bleary-eyed misanthropy. I hadn't figured on John, the cab-driver, being a chatterbox. The Olympics, the World Cup, holiday destinations, redundancy, politics, his wife, her shopping habits... the list went on, and the zzzz's never stood a chance.

When I confessed that I was heading to Texas to hook up with Iron Maiden a big chat about Leytonstone, the band's old stomping ground, followed and before long he was discoursing on Blondie, the Sex Pistols and T'Pau. Yep, 'China In Your Hand' came on Magic FM as we hit the M4.

Eventually at Terminal 3 I met Dom Lawson, scribe for Metal Hammer and Classic Rock magazines, and lifelong Maiden fan. So lifelong in fact that when he was 13 he wrote to Jimmy Saville and Jim fixed it for him to meet his idols, who then allowed him to introduce one of their songs live on stage at the Hammersmith Odeon. Nearly three decades later we're jetting off together to see them rip up America, as one of the biggest bands in the world, about to launch their fifteenth studio album. Dom is grinning like a Cheshire cat...

However, as I tried to print my boarding pass at the Virgin desks an error message came up telling me to see a member of staff. Oh ****! Leaving Dom to queue for me in the bag-drop line I located a red-suited lady (strangely a lot dumpier and older than the ones in the Virgin ad who stride through a 1980s airport to the sound of Frankie Goes To Hollywood like gleaming models, causing young men to need a change of underwear) and she informed me I'd been selected for random security screening. Joy! She then slightly ruined the purpose of it by telling me that it would happen later at the gate and they'd go through my hand luggage there, giving me plenty of time to dispose of all the nefarious contraband I was undoubtedly stashing into my laptop case. Bizarre!!

Boarding pass subsequently issued, bags dropped off, dollars procured at the bureau de change, bag x-rayed and customers elbowed out of the way at the most crowded Starbucks on earth, Dom and I finally made it to the gate. And sure enough I got taken to one side and searched. All very polite, although over-intimate around the testicles and waistband - I suspect the guard was well-known at some of the more 'interesting' clubs in Vauxhall!

However I caused a bit of consternation when I got distracted by the fact that the free newspapers were just about to disappear and buggered off to claim the last one, leaving the female security officer whose hand was delving into my bag frozen in suspicion. A stern telling-off and some rubber glove treatment was avoided by a big smile, fulsome apology and a wink at my mustachioed friend... Although I think he was quite looking forward to the latex action.

Finally we made the plane and here I am now, heading to Chicago for a five-hour stopover before transferring to San Antonio. Sadly, having just hopped back and forth a few days ago I've already seen pretty much everything I want to on the in-flight system and while I can highly recommend Michael Moore's 'Capitalism: A Love Story', I'm now left without a great deal of choice. Amazing how despite Virgin's almost limitless choice of films and TV shows, the vast majority are about as interesting as Simon Cowell's wardrobe. Time to devour the gourmet delights of microwaved pasta that lies before me like the remains of a student's fridge and try to get some sleep, despite the snoring of the large woman behind me keeping the rest of the cabin awake. Is lunchtime too early for a valium? Let's find out...

Transpires I forgot to put the valium in the hand luggage. But a 90 minute doze, broken briefly for a choc ice, did me the power of good. And a further investigation of the entertainment system reveals the first two episodes of both Glee and Modern Family - which we'd missed as we were in India when the shows started screening. So now I know that Will Schuster framed Finn with marijuana to persuade him be part of the glee club, how Rachel sexed-up a routine in assembly to recruit the Cheerios and why Mitchell and Cameron ended up adopting Lily. It's been educational!!

Finally we land, a little later than planned, and sail through immigration with surprising speed, considering the last few visits. We're immediately issued with boarding passes for our United flight to San Antonio, and my bag is whisked off, so we wander out of Terminal 5 to find the transit to Terminal 2 and our plane. We last approximately 30 seconds in the heat before diving back into the air-conditioned building. Seems Chicago has got hot, hot, hot. And if it's like this here, God alone knows what San Antonio will be like. Last weekend the weather channel claimed it was 109 degrees down in Texas!

We find the entrance to the monorail which connects the terminals and transfer across. By now it's 3pm, which is 9pm back in the UK. With three hours still to kill we find the one place in the entire terminal that serves beer and has seats. Sadly they're all taken but with the eyes of a hawk I see a woman getting ready to leave and the moment she vacates her table I commandeer it with a lightning fast strike.

The Skybridge Cafe, where we base ourselves, is less salubrious than its name suggests being a fast food joint with an adjoining bar, but the food is surprisingly good. While I opt for the healthy grilled chicken pitta, Dom launches straight into Americana with a double cheeseburger and fries. Some chilled Corona's wash it all down. I contemplate the 109 emails that have just arrived into my blackberry, and decide they can all wait while we sink a couple of beers and put the world to rights. Or more accurately discuss the merits of Girls Aloud, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, children's movies and heavy metal.

Our discussion attracts the attention of a woman sat next to us who asks if we're British. We confess we are and immediately talk turns to BP and the oil spill in the Gulf. She says that us Brits have been given a hard time over it and that no-one she knows blames us for the disaster. Phew! Cos there was me thinking it's all my fault... D'Anna, as she introduces herself, is from Texas and is travelling back there from Washington DC where she's been lobbying the Obama administration. Turns out she works for an arms trader and campaigns for financial breaks for weapons manufacturers. A lively political discussion ensues but far from being a redneck neo-con she proves to be an entertaining drinking companion, full of tips on where to go in San Antonio and Washington DC, where I'm due to meet Corinne Bailey Rae in a few days.

When she finds out Dom ("as in Dom Perignon?" she asks much to Mr Lawson's delight) is a music journalist she reveals she used to be a journalist too. "I'm a bottom feeder. I've been an arms dealer and a journalist. Just need to become a lawyer and I'll have done all three!" she remarks drolly. But then she surprises us with a discussion on drugs and the hallucinogenic qualities of various mushrooms, peyote and more. "I study 'erbs..." is her explanation. D'Anna insists on buying us a drink and wishing us well on our journey before she jumps on her flight to Austin, but sadly while she departs on time, we have an hour's delay announced that drags on and on.

Eventually at 8pm, two hours later than scheduled, we take to the air in a compact jet with just 17 rows in seats of two. By this point, the sun is setting high in the sky and Dom and I are hitting the wall - within minutes of taking off we're both drooling and snoring in our seats. Some two and a half hours later the city lights of San Antonio are laid out before us. From the air the city looks enormous. Dom tells me that it's the sixth largest city in America! I was expecting a town the size of Austin - a rather small and quaint place which hosts the annual South By South West festival. But no, San Antonio is massive, sprawling below us as far as the eye can see.

Fortunately the taxi ride from airport to hotel is less than 20 minutes and the hotel is rather fine. Placed down on the river it backs on to all the restaurants and bars and is a short walk away from the historic Alamo. Dom and I check in, dump our bags and decide to have a nightcap. It's still ferociously hot even at 11.30pm. We saunter along the riverwalk and spy before us a bar called Dicks. Is it jetlag, stupidity or weariness? Whatever, we go in... Welcome to the State of Texas!

Dicks is raucous, crazy, loud and buzzing. Tables full of drunk women and redneck men, flags adorning the walls, paper napkins strewn all over the floor, people dancing, whoopin' and a-hollerin'. It's the most un-bridled display of American hedonism I've seen since Bourbon Street in New Orleans four years ago, just before the hurricane hit.

On stage a band is cranking out the likes of 'Mustang Sally' and 'Proud Mary', and judging by their playing they're as drunk as the patrons. A middle-aged woman jumps up on stage to bang a tambourine woefully out of time and contribute harmonies that would make dogs weep. The bass-player sings 'Message In A Bottle' in a totally different key to what he's playing and the audience are so tone-deaf they love every minute.

We find a table and sit down, dazed and confused and before we know it, a woman wearing a provocative top emblazoned with the motto "They have Hooters, we have Dicks" wanders over. She's a waitress; Tiffany. "You been to Dicks before?" she pouts. "Well let me tell you, we don't care about nuthin' here. We're Dicks. You want good service and dull-ass shit there's Hard Rock Cafe over there. You want fun, you stay here. Now read that damn menu and work out what the fuck you want and I'll be back."

Reeling under the surreal onslaught we throw caution to the wind, order two huge Coronas and some deep-fried alligator, which is listed on the menu with the instruction, "Go ahead and try em ya sissy. Everything's better fry'd!!!" I've tried crocodile in South Africa which was tasteless and watery, so let's see if alligator is a tastier proposition. Tiffany returns with buckets of beer, a basket of "Gator Bites" (which are so covered in deep-fried batter and fiery chipotle sauce that they taste delicious) and, randomly, a plastic water-pistol type gun which is loaded with loo-roll which she cover some poor hapless punter with while laughing so hard her breasts dance uncontrollaby. "That's one of the most strangely erotic things I've ever seen!" sighs Dom.

By now it's almost 12.45 - so coming up to 7am back in Blighty. We've been going for over 24 hours. Bed is definitely needed. I settle the bill and we crawl the 50 yards back to the hotel, past the doorman wearing a t-shirt with the logo, "Spreading chaos one Dick at a time." It seems entirely apt. It's been one of those days...