Let me tell you about my morning then.
The alarm went off at 2.45. Yes, in the morning. Set to wake us up to watch the last round of the Premier League from England.
More particularly one game involving my team of 45 years, Man United. Even saying that out loud, writing those words down seems incredulous. And
when I say "us" I mean myself and the two teenagers.
Have I really been getting up at that ungodly hour most weekends for most of my life? Yes I have. And I know it's ridiculous. And I know most folk will
never understand why anyone would do it and quite often I don't either!
So I go in and wake my youngest, "here we go mate", while the eldest (who's stayed the night on the couch, it's only a two-bedroom place I rent)
is already up making the lads coffee.
Briefly, very briefly, I think to myself what have I done here sentencing my two to another lifetime of this idiocy? An obsession with a football team from
a city so far away.
A bunch of stupidly paid blokes kicking a pigskin around a park.
So we take our possies in the lounge awaiting kickoff. Same seating arrangements as last week. And the week before. In fact for every game.
Favourite scarf, hat, shirt standard wear.
Something worn the last time we faced a must win that might've... just might've been the difference between winning & winning.
Because someone in NZ 12,000 miles away awake in the middle of the night wearing the same scarf as last time makes ALL the difference.
I can't even begin to explain this level of insanity. And as utterly bonkers as it may sound, from this end it seems so perfectly normal.
And in the end the result was favourable. We all yelled and screamed and hugged and celebrated.
A few precious hours of positive parenting time I call it.
And the only time feeling sleep-deprived you never seem to mind.