“What the hell are these?” says my husband, striding into the kitchen with a child under each arm. He does get terribly distracted when he has a big game coming up.

“It’s children, petal, innit,” I tell him. “Remember how we got their names tattooed on your back, so you wouldn’t forget?” “The thing is . . .” says my husband, dropping the boys and checking one of his forearms, “. . . Victoria, I ain’t talking about the boys. I’m talking about wot they’re wearing.”

I put down the skimmed cress yoghurt on which I am gorging. “Shirts. Pretty yellow shirts.”

“Pretty yellow Brazil shirts,” he says. “They can’t wear them. They should be wearing England ones. Look, I gotta go. The plane to Germany

is leaving in an hour. I’ll see you at the weekend. Make sure nobody sees them like this, yeah?” I don’t understand this at all. David wears a Spanish shirt all the time.

TUESDAY

Theo Walcott’s girlfriend, Melanie, calls me in the morning. She’s a sweet little thing.

“God,” she says. “There’s so much to learn, and I just don’t know who else to ask. I’m terrified of getting something wrong. There’s 11 people on a team, right?” I check a tattoo on my ankle. “Yeah. Eleven on each side.”

“Right. And the game lasts 90 minutes?” I study the inside of my left bicep. “That’s right.”

“Fantastic. I’m writing this down. So, look. This offside rule. How does that work?” I twist my neck over my right shoulder, and freeze.

“Aaargh,” I say. “Sorry. Can’t help you with that one. Done my back in. Give Nancy a call.”

“What’s her number?” says Melanie.

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