I went shoe shopping before the game, since the soles of the trainers I've been playing in since 1998 finally parted company from the uppers last match and I decided it was time to buy some proper astroturf boots, a mere decade into my soccer career.
I now own something called a Nike Total 90 III - two somethings, in fact. The sales assistant missed his target rather when he assured me that this was exactly the thing Wayne Rooney is currently playing in: one, I doubt very much that Wayne Rooney is wearing something you can get for thirty quid at JJB Sports in Junior sizes, and two, I couldn't care less what he is wearing, the tosser. Nice boots, though. Shiny. I'm playing better already.
We got through to the semi-finals and had a wildly exciting nil-nil draw, eventually losing by a whisker on penalties. Damn, though, it was cold. I'm not sure of the scientific principles behind this, but when it's cold getting hit by the ball stings like absolute buggery. By five o'clock the sun had set, my legs had gone blue and purple in blotches and I just wanted to get on the East London Line followed by the Jubilee Line and two buses and jump into the bath.
Came home. Discovered that the boiler's on the fritz and there's no heat or hot water.
I'm sure many of you know what it's like when your whole being is focused on how cold you are and how wonderful it will feel when you finally immerse yourself in a steaming hot bath, only to be denied it through no fault of your own, and will be extending heartfelt sympathies.
I have lasagne in the oven, and plan to follow it with a caramel latte; if I can't heat myself from the outside in, I'll just have to do it from the inside out.