Not sure whether to be glad or not that England is through to the next round. It's such bloody hard work watching that I would almost prefer to be eating my own toenails. In fact WAS eating own toenails.
Youngest asked, in the final five minutes of the England/Slovenia match,
'Mummy, can I say the 'F' word, please?'
His nerves, it would seem, were somewhat tattered.
I told him kindly that he couldn't say the 'F' word but he COULD say Bum, if he felt the need.
The utter relief of winning was mixed with the awful and real dread regarding the next match. Will we win? Can we? Might we? Really? Oh, god.
Remember those heady Tim Henman days? When we would cheerfully curl up on our sofas
and watch Tim playing his little white socks off.
He might win! we would all exclaim, 'He really, really might win!'
Then, just as we had given voice to that thought, he would start losing. Big Time. And then, just as we had resigned ourself to losing the sodding match, the bugger would go and win. Total Nightmare.
And so it is with England.
Yo-yo'ing between utter elation and downright misery.
Which is Not Good for the nerves.
I need to prepare myself for Sunday.
I will give myself permission to say the 'F' word. Only this time it's F**k. No mucking about with anything less.
I might EVEN say something Ruder.
On the other hand I may be Pleasantly Surprised by an Easy Victory, and then have to endure the next round.
I tell you, you just Can't Win.
Let's hope England bloody can.