Mum's The Word

Ssssh! I've got a secret!

My Mum and Dad have bought me Ian Holloway's book for Christmas.

Now please, you mustn't let on you know. My mum said I have got to forget about it now and pretend it is a surprise when I open it.

My poor parents. Goodness knows what they make of my new found passion. Most of my friends are completely baffled by it, if somewhat amused.

I suppose my parents have known me that much longer - all my life in fact :-). They are used to 'Georgina and her strange ways'.

And then there is the fun of teasing my dad. A dyed-in-the-wool egg-chaser. We now have the shared joy of arguing about whether the earthy skill of rugby boys can compare with the choreography of the beautiful game. And whether the "I can still score a try with two broken arms and a severed leg" mentality of rugby hunks has more merit than "I've broken an eyelash and need to be carried off on a stretcher" which we can't pretend is not around in football.

Sadly, just as I was gearing up to convince my mum she should spearhead a "Mourinho for England" campaign amongst the population of 'more mature' women, I learned that he has ruled himself out of the running.

Guess I won't be getting everything I wanted for Christmas.