I’ve practised speaking football for the week.

I have no interest in football. I hate all sports. And yes, that means the Olympics, the cricket and Wimbledon, because funnily enough, they are sports.

The Mister lives for Football. He’s a follower of the Spurs. This, it seems to me, is an oxymoron, as the Spurs and football have little in common.

The Spurs are not very good at football.

I once asked why he didn’t just choose a better team, but the days, nay weeks, of outraged explanation resulted in a stoney silence broken only by the offer of a last Rolo. (I don’t eat Nestle, so that didn’t actually work)

In the interests of marital harmony, I try to feign an interest in the Mister’s world. In reality, I’m just not that bothered, but apparently, it is rude to say that out loud.

It’s not that I don’t like the Mister. As husbands go, he’s grand. If I had to get another one, I’d only have to pretend to be interested in different shite, and anyway, I’ve pre-recorded football responses ready to go; they’d only go to waste.

I ask if the Spurs are doing well. I know the answer to this – they are never doing well, but it gives the Mister a full five minutes of blathering on about managers, trainers, assorted clowns – (insert who has been sacked, rehired, or shot at dawn). At least he gets to chat.

It is vital that I keep my face neutral throughout this encounter. Any show of interest will be seized upon and expanded. 5 minutes could turn into 5 days.

Mostly, my face works, a mask of wifely duty.  

If not, the Mister eventually notices that I’ve died or left the room and ceases his chatter.

The Spurs are facing relegation. See, I keep up. I have my finger on the pulse. I could explain what this actually means, but honestly, that would mean mentioning football to the Mister for a second time this week, and I’ve used up all my appropriate responses.

‘That’s nice’

‘I am sorry for you loss.’

‘Congratulations’ (rarely used).

Still, it’s only another week, and then I can relax, my interest in football shelved for the summer.  Now I can concentrate on important issues, like how many cucumber plants are too many? Does throwing sticky-willy at passersby constitute an assault?

‘Are you ready?’ the Mister asks, smirking.

I give him the look of a woman who has been married for thirty years.

‘Have you rehearsed?’ he asks, laughing. I want to say cackle, but we both know he couldn’t pull that off.  ‘For the World Cup,’ he grins. He actually rubs his hands together with glee.

To be fair, dear reader, this is the first I’ve heard of the World Cup.

I mean, I know it exists. I even know it might be in…I wanna say Antarctica? I didn’t know it was now. This summer.

I don’t have enough lines.

What the fuck am I meant to say?

There’s going to be nothing on the telly for the whole bloody summer.

There will be whole days when no one will make me a cup of tea or remind me how fabulous I am.

Dear god, he’s gone and got Sky Sports.  He’s off work for the whole summer.  He’s got all the days planned around the footie. (Okay, that’s a lie, the Mister’s ADHD life does not go in for plans. (Oooh, with any luck, he might forget, Now and Not Now, and all that jazz.))

But Tesco won’t forget with all their World Cup snacks and BBQS.  Bloody Sky won’t forget, reminding him to book the sofa for the opening, whatever. (Is it a bit like the Olympics when they all walk around waving, but this time with their shirts over their heads?)

How will I cope?

Is it too late to book a holiday?

Do they have football in space?

I need your help. I can’t fix my football face every day, something will snap. Just imagine the pressure.

Send me appropriate phrases I can rehearse. I won’t need that many, I mean how long can the World Cup go on for?

At least this means they’ll have cancelled the tennis, right?