Clearly there's something amiss when you have a post mortem without the build-up.
But something got in the way of the final final countdown - so to speak. It is called a boy going to bed. The latest wheeze is to make him think that everyone else is going to bed. We do this by everybody else going to bed.
The simplicity is profound.
It all reminds me a bit of boarding school with lights out at 9.30pm. At that time it was the parents who paid for that kind of institutionalised deprivation. Now, as a parent, I can relive those days of gruel without having to fork out.
Only it's not my idea of adult life to be going to bed slap bang in the middle of the evening.
The football match over which I have been obsessing took place. And it was all rather dramatic. It was first versus second and first won. I would like to think that I had an effect on the result but I have to be honest and say that I entered the fray when we were leading 2-1 and we won 2-1.
I assisted the status quo.
The good thing was that I emerged without messing up the calf. Had a 45 minute run out as they say in the newspapers and it's all guns blazing for the Christmas break.
It was pleasing to be help out and to win and not to exacerbate the calf.
So hooray for yoga. Hooray for the swimming pool. Hooray for the cycling and hooray for the opposition not being able to score an equaliser.
We go into the Christmas break as leaders.
That there's fuel for a good yule.