ING-GER-LE-UND!

If you ask me, there are only two things worth discussing at the moment. The first one comes as a bit of a shock. To such an extent that I fear my body has been inhabited by the Ghost of World Cups Past. So amazed am I at how seriously I am taking the whole competition, I feel sure there must have been some kind of paranormal intervention.

It all began when the Father of the Children brought home a wall chart with the evening paper a few weeks ago – this now holds pride of place on our mantelpiece. The children jostle for position when a result comes through. I have had to implement a strict rota – to take it in turns to write down the scores. I am very particular about how the chart is filled in. Neatness is essential although I am fairly relaxed about which pen should be used. We have a bottle of Tippex at the ready for errors - Flo is in charge of that.

Vociferous, sentimental and sometimes hysterical, this Ghost has had me scampering from one unwieldy emotion to another. I shouted at the radio all the way to school on Wednesday morning, when they played against Nigeria, and what is worse I cried. My children couldn’t believe their eyes; they sat motionless in a row on the back seat with their mouths Since you ask it was the ‘Three Lions’ by Baddiel and Skinner that set me off. I am the woman who was left cold by a whole nation cheering the Queen and yet have tears pouring down my cheeks at the pride and patriotism of a football song. The Ghost is letting things get out of hand.

Wednesday is market day in town. The cheap and cheerful clothing stall has abandoned the bargain packs of socks and brightly coloured fleece tops in favour of every size and shape of t–shirt with a football theme. Most are white with the red St. George’s cross or a few discreet (or not) Three Lion symbols. There are hats, rucksacks – the possibilities being endless. This week I fingered the shiny, nylon garments on the racks, contemplating a whole new set of family outfits. I could get a vest top for Bobby, a long sleeved for Max and some PE shorts for Flo. The children would love caps too. The Father of the Children could emulate ‘Golden Balls’ in a high-necked short-sleeved version I felt sure. Then I had to decide what to get for myself. The stallholder suggested I buy a sleeveless crop top. Crop tops and me? Well, let’s just say we never had our moment. Luckily the Ghost has a sense of humour and we laughed out loud.

It isn’t only me. Bobby too wants to have an England (Ing-ger-le-und) flag on our car aerial. Annoyingly our aerial goes up and down when I turn the ignition on and off, but I have promised to find a small one he could tie on to his bike. I have schlepped up and down three high streets looking, no luck so far. The Ghost is desperate for me to buy a full size one for the house from the Internet but my credit card is full so I can’t do that just now.

I’m writing this before the match against Denmark on Saturday. If they don’t go through my biggest worry isn’t how I shall comfort my children in their disappointment. No, I’m wondering where on earth my Ghost will go. Will he stay with me forever or simply reappear every four years? Maybe he’ll stay and insist that I buy a season ticket for Old Trafford and we’ll spend the weekends commuting to Manchester.

Seriously though, the bad news for everyone who knows me is that an England (Ing-ger-le-und) defeat would leave me with one remaining topic of conversation. Did I mention the only other thing I talk about these days? Big Brother of course. I can already hear the door slam as the Father of the Children departs (running) never to return. Poor man has had a lot to put up with. He’s just about coping with me obsessing about two things; if it were reduced to one it would probably leave him no choice but to abandon his family in order to hold on to his sanity. So here’s hoping England win, but isn’t it fascinating how we hated Jade when she arrived and now we love her?

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

Read Claire's previous diary