Oh no, tomorrow is Saturday, and it's the last home match of the season, so I'm duty bound to stand watching thirty boys running around chasing an odd-shaped ball for an hour.
Not that I'm not interested.
Not that I'm not fearsomely proud of the Boy being in the first fifteen (I never had the drive, skill, enthusiasm and determination, let alone the motivation).
Not that I won't be cheering him and the rest of the team on.
No. It's just that it's bloody wet and freezing out there.
Still, Bancrofts is renowned for putting on the best post-match food.
And yes, I'm tired, selfish and grumpy today.
