Hanging On: West Brom 3-3 West Ham; 12 February

At ten past three when we left our house in Langham to go for a walk in Sheringham Country Park, West Ham were already losing 2-0.  When we arrived there we were losing 3-0 and the match (as well as the season) was over.  There is no phone signal in the country park (North Norfolk is always dodgy for this) so my post-operation recuperative gentle stroll was not accompanied by more gloom.  Instead the dogs got filthy and happy and The Controller and I tempted fate by talking about the possibilities for our new house in Essex.  We await the survey report on the prospective house and the current house (for our potential buyer) before we can proceed, but meanwhile play the 'we should', 'what about', 'when we move' games with increasing excitement.  Which is not a feeling I get about the Irons.

During the course of the walk (the game already filed as lost), The Controller asked if I would go again next season, after we've moved.  Recently she's maintained I should because to give up would be a change too many, after our move, my mother moving into sheltered accommodation and the looming (and welcome) prospect of my retirement.  She thinks I need some continuity, and the misery that is supporting West Ham will supply it. 

I remain unsure.  My children, as children will, regard this with amused contempt.  They say (with good evidence) that I say this every season.  But they also recognise that it's getting closer to the start of each season when hope gives way to realism (a.k.a. despair).  But now the pleasure I get is from going with them (and latterly my lovely grandson, Connor) rather than the event itself.  The football has gone beyond being incidental to being a drag.  It's not pleasurable in prospect, in actuality or in retrospect most times.  But it's been such a fixture in my life for so long that I fear being one of those amputees who still feel the pain in their absent limb.  I'd not go and still be disappointed by the performances that I hadn't seen.

As we left the Park to take the dogs to Blakeney to have a sea bath and get rid of the accumulated dirt,  The Controller suggested I listen to the radio to get the final score.  The match wasn't over, it was 3-3 and West Ham were pushing for the winner.

So the season isn't yet over, the decision gets postponed, and the kernel of hope twitches again.