It’s just about two weeks since My Good Wife celebrated as I stepped through the door.
I should point out, right now, that this is not a regular occurence.
Normally my presence is treated, at best, as something of an inconvenience – I suspect she thinks I clutter the place up.
But this homecoming was different, mainly because it marked the end of the football season.
Now, given I get paid to watch it for a living, you might think it a little odd that My Good Wife and the beautiful game are not good friends. I’ve tried to explain the little details of it all, I’ve tried to explain the work that goes in, I’ve even tried comparing it to ballet, only to be told that was ‘boring’ too.
So, now she thinks I’ve got a few weeks off I’d best not mention Brazil.
Yes, the World Cup is here.
Sales of annoying plastic flags have gone through the roof, the nation’s expectations have been unreasonably raised and everyone’s had a good Google of ‘metatarsal’.
And for what?
What comes over us as a nation when the big kick-off looms?
We’ve spent three years writing off our own hopes.
Now all of a sudden there’s endless 1966 repeats on the magic lantern and every man and his dog is getting carried away about winning the thing.
Let me say now I’m not in that camp.
If I was jetting out to watch Roy and the boys I’d definitely not bother unpacking – the groups don’t last that long. Call me miserable, by all means, but when it comes to football I’m a realist.
I might get all excited over a Euromillions draw, imagining how to spend the money before I’ve bought the ticket.
But with footy I’ve learned to expect disappointment, that way it doesn’t hurt so much.
And, just in case you’re wondering, I’m not off on the road to Rio. I’ll be watching at home – as long as I’ve plucked up the courage to tell the management by then. It’s not going to be easy, given her opinion of the game I love.
Maybe I’ll just leave this column lying about.
It’s the coward’s choice but probably the best.