I was fairly certain we would escape The Match which was inescapable yesterday on the streets of London when we landed at the maison of my 80 yr old Aunt. I had bemoaned earlier that day to Keith (who was  most certainly watching the match ) and Jasper (more committed to going out clubbing) that i was already sick of the World Cup and it hadn’t barely started.

“So we’ll be watching the match at 7.30” says she, me Aunt.

“You like the World Cup?”

“Well we’ve got to, it’s our boys, we’ve got to see them thrash the Yanks.”

The Small Male who was absolutely on for The Match crashed out for the entirety of it and was unwakeable. The poor boy had repeated his tradition of always throwing up as soon as he gets on British Rail.

My Aunt’s commentary on the match, complete with Northern chastisement, was rather fun, especially since it didn’t relate to football. John Terry, The England manager didn’t have a “lotta bottle”. Today a man on a train assured me the manager is called Fabio something or other.

Best of all she lost all interest in the match and snapped it off when she declared they weren’t going to win and instead she regaled me with tales of my grandfather’s lean towards communism and tales of the working class community she grew up in followed by heated debate on outrageous sexism therein.  I had to look up the score on the BBC this morning since I was so confused by the actual match, distracted by the legs and high theatrical gesticulating.

Today in Dublin, blah and supine from jetlag and boat train boat I took in chunks of the German/Australian match and found myself rising to the occasion. The occasion being incapacitation.

The train buzz is now a bump over a buzz. Bit like the promising idea of cuddling, say, a hedgehog.