Here we go, here we go, here we go

I’VE recently been to my first ever football match, after which I wondered what on earth I’ve been doing with my Saturday afternoons until now. I’m not a fan of the sport, but, if asked, declare myself a supporter of Southampton, which is why I came to be sitting at St Mary’s stadium chanting ‘Oh When The Saints’ in a collective roar that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

When we (for I am now in that number) went 2-nil up against rich-as-croesus Chelsea, the man on Zam’s right turned, fractionally hesitated and then gave in to his emotions, enveloping Zam in a hug. And I mean hug: he was a big fellow and Zam’s not small, but he disappeared.

Chelsea went on to score three goals in eight minutes, but, after their second goal, the stadium fell silent and Saints fans headed for the exit. I discussed if this was a breach of good manners, like leaving before curtain call, with proper fans, who tried to explain that it’s more about dejection, pain and, in some cases, disgust.

‘It’s like you believed and then you have to face up to being a fool. And then you do it again,’ said one. According to another, this never used to happen and is a sign of the beautiful game going bad with the money, but I refuse to criticise Saints fans because they are now my tribe.

‘Same old Chelsea, Always cheating,’ (scans beautifully) was replaced by the opposition fans chanting ‘2-nil and you effed it up’, which isn’t Shakespeare, but it hurt.

‘And there was this really annoying Chelsea fan on the train on the way home,’ I told Olive. ‘He was about seven,’ interjected Alf. ‘But really annoying,’ I continued.

‘I don’t understand why there aren’t more fights,’ I mused. ‘Cripes, Alf,’ said Olive. ‘What’s happened to Mum? She’s become a hooligan.’

Iwent back to doing the things that I used to do before I became a football fan. We began re-laying the terrace outside the kitchen, using some tiles I bought on the internet. Each one varies in length, width and girth and, in many cases, is twisted or humped so it will never lie flat. The photos didn’t show this.

I bought them for a passage floor where they would obviously never work—the builder just laughed—and I have no idea if they’re frost proof. Having persuaded Zam, who looked a bit like the builder, but with less laughing, to use them, we laid scalpings, a membrane, hired a whacker plate, shovelled on wheelbarrows of sand and began the jigsaw of misshapen pieces.

The terrace now has a basketweave effect on which a chair will never sit flatly. When you step in it, which you wouldn’t without shoes because you’d stub your toe, a tile snaps. ‘It looks lovely,’ I tried telling Zam, who had to take himself away from the area for a while to stay calm.

Truthfully, it’s another example of my impractical nature, which I still refuse to acknowledge. There are few sounds in the world that can make Zam’s heart sink more than hearing me with a hammer as he comes in the door. ‘I’m hanging pictures,’ I shout down the stairs. ‘Oh God,’ I hear him mutter. He’s a bit right because there aren’t many pictures on our walls that don’t have at least three holes and, often, hooks (which I couldn’t get out) behind them.

I’ve done classes in mosaics, jewellery, pottery, patchwork, dress-making—i’m currently on book-binding. Nowhere has fed my habit more than Creative Crafts, a shop that has just closed down due to rent and rate hikes—the latter set by the Government.

I went to pay my respects on its final day. The shelves were nearly empty: a solitary spray can of snow, some scrapbook papers, a few twists of tapestry wool.

It had a dedicated following from far afield. The assistant told me that an American woman bought all their tapestry kits one year and then returned 12 months later for more. ‘Please tell me,’ her husband said as she was paying, ‘that this shop is not the reason we’re on this particular cruise.’ They’d disembarked in nearby Southampton.

Sadly, prosperous Winchester, in losing its quirky independent shops, is beginning to look like a clone of all other cities. I came home with 21 sheets of sugar paper, a retractable pencil and nostalgia.

There are few sounds that make Zam’s heart sink more than me with a hammer