Alexis Sanchez has reminded me that I need to learn to compartmentalise more effectively.
The way I allowed the Chilean to ruin my birthday weekend was alarming – my efforts to cover up the anguish he caused feeble and totally ineffective.
The scene was familiar. A charming family locale: grass, trees, lots of open space and that fresh air thing that folk harp on about.
Thankfully, it came packaged with a gift shop and cafe – vital strategic outposts of any outing: this one had outside toilets that could be used to scan teamsheet and scores. I just had to time the breaks so they appeared realistic and reasonable.
The data signal wasn’t the best, but if I stood with the smokers or outside the ladies, it was fine. Note to self – consider taking up smoking or apply for a sex change to make this process easier ahead of future visits to this venue.
So far, so good. But then events turned a little frenzied.
Sergio Aguero saw red, Diego Costa limped off and Eden Hazard scored in a whirlwind of activity. Any Fantasy Football Manager would be distracted by such a chain of chaos.
I detached myself to hurriedly research and communicate on the events. I’m not sure this was warmly received. But it was my birthday – I was allowed to treat myself.
Having successfully navigated a stormy early afternoon period, I next had to give the impression that I wasn’t the least bit affected by my captain, Harry Kane, playing in the three o’clock kick-offs.
I’m not sure I pulled that one off.
The sudden mood swing when the second goal was confirmed via text message may have been detectable. The smile, possibly the first of the day, gave the game away.
Then it was all downhill from there.
Optimistic after my Kane haul, I was looking forward to watching Arsenal’s trip to the London Stadium unfold.
Sanchez worried me a little but I had Theo Walcott to grab me some points and, hopefully, cushion the blow.
We know the rest.
By the time Sanchez confirmed his hat-trick, Walcott was already hooked and I was desperately trying to remain communicative as I attempted to clamber out of a pit of despair.
I made it to the evening but then had to set about repairing the damage and my mood.
Transfer deliberation into the early hours followed. It was my turn to wake with the kids at 5.30 am on Sunday but, with a shift to 3-5-2 to consider, I had to get my priorities straight.
Unable to sort my head and settle on transfers, I missed the 1 am price rises as my agony leaked into the next day. Now hopelessly grumpy from the Sanchez spanking, the 0.2 price loss and a chronic lack of sleep, I was the man to be around.
A model partner and father, ready for another round of afternoon family activity. More fresh air. No cafe. No escape route.
This was a sorry way to turn 45. Typing this out now, I feel more than a little ashamed.
I’ve got to stop doing this.
I’m never selling Alexis Sanchez again.
