Those of a nervous disposition may wish to look away as the content of the next sentence contains some disturbing imagery.
Last Saturday I was too tired to go to football. I really couldn’t be a#sed.
I know. That is very wrong. What is the weekend for if it is not for watching the beautiful game? Usually a most satisfactory cure for the slings and arrows of the working week. But a major work project had left me on my knees and the contents of my skull resembled soupy tapioca. At one meeting I had managed to forget the name of our incoming CEO, finishing off my sentence with the lame and unconvincing, “the woman who will be in charge from January.”
It wasn’t the watching football bit that was leaving me unmoved. Admittedly it Lesta City’s turn to be graced with TLF’s presence so there was no hope of a witnessing anything other defeat. But I didn’t really mind that. No not the game itself but the getting there. If I’d had a Tardis I would have been there like a shot (one more than Lesta would have had BOOMBOOM). Maybe I could have taken some Daleks along with me as new signings to shore up our defence. I just didn’t want the travel. Having to be somewhere at a certain time and changing trains and blahblahblah.
I also wanted to be indulgent and be on my own. I needed my comfort zone. I needed the tried and tested, the old and reliable and the easily accessible. I needed this chair.
In a coffee shop in Islington, where I used to invest many weekend hours and if any f#cker had the temerity to be in MY chair when I arrived then I would sit and deploy a TLF death-stare until they left.
With high stakes (higher odds even than the cheeky 6-1 wager I had placed on Lesta to win – oh come on what is a football fan if you take away all of of their senseless and illogical optimism?) I put my faith in Thameslink trains and Euphorium Bakery. And was justly rewarded, with the bonus of some added Ray (off to watch Chelsea) on my train journey and then my trusty chair, awaiting my arrival. Tea, toasted bagel, newspaper and peace. COMFORT ZONE.
And then back home -to the news that Lesta were losing and Mr TLF (re-christened Mr Ebenezer – ELF(!) for the duration of the festive season) was sulking due to absent builders, the impending arrival of Christmas and the fact that West Ham were ‘only’ drawing. Cue a Monty Phythonesque “A draw! You were lucky. We dreamed of a draw” monologue.