Everybody is hungover.
I pulled myself up off the sofa in the morning. Tom didn’t come home last night. I could’ve snuck into bed and slept a bit better. It was hot. I had a restless night on the sofa and was up early and unfulfilled. My dreams were full of penalty kicks. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in that.
What a way to end an international tournament. I kinda think it would be better to go into sudden death and then just stick it out, gladiatorially, until either a goal is finally scored or all the players die of old age. This tournament was decided, finally, by a nineteen year old boy missing a penalty. The pressure was, perhaps, too much for him. No surprise. A shame though for a lovely England team not to have that win which would have made them immortal – preserved in the annals of the beautiful game.
I wasn’t so deeply invested, as you know. But I would’ve been pleased to see them win. I cared enough for my sleep to be fouled by them losing. But I definitely slept better than most of the people I was alongside as I took the train from Victoria to Brighton. There I was surrounded by unhappy shambling slow and quiet souls. A hot night in London, and the deflation of weeks of rhetoric about how it’s coming home. I went on the train through these sad souls with their customised clothes, on their walk of shame.
This evening in Brighton I honestly didn’t even realise I had chosen an Italian restaurant until the waitress apologised for her hoarse voice and I realised she would’ve been watching it too and cheering the other side. “We are out of Moretti on tap,” they tell us. “It was such a long weekend.” The food was still good, and it didn’t taste of tears. I ate well and now I’m back at Lou’s. We are winding down and she’s packing to go to a festival for a week. I’ll be looking after Mao here, and doing tons of random work before I go to Oxford next week. Last night with Lou for a bit. I’m gonna hang with her and bother the cat…
AlBarclay 