Off, then, to Wigan for the second time this season. They're playing another of Steve Bruce's exes, Birmingham City. I remain equivocal, he said pompously. It's a good day and even the journey up is stress-free, so there's time to consider my latest moral dilemma.
I'll be long-winded, if that's OK. There's a pub opposite Norwood Junction station. In sepia-tinted I've had great times there, before and after matches with Palace, Charlton and Wimbledon. I was back there one night the other week, paying to see my team and meeting my old friend Alan in the grumpy away section. Seeing him was fantastic, but I'd already sneaked into that pub before-hand on the off-off-off-chance there was someone I know similarly clinging on to times gone. There wasn't, but I do it again (pointlessly discreetly since I had trains to catch) afterwards for a quick emptying of the bladder. At the urinal, I think I half-recognise someone but men being men (except under other circumstances) this is neither the time and place.
At London Bridge, I'm behind the same guy. If I think it's who it is, his hair has gone white and he's looking oldish now. Over 15 years or so, we spent truly great times together - some of them at that pub at Norwood Junction before and long after games - but when the going got tough for him, I proved to be a poor friend indeed. Quite rightly, he took it quite badly and I don't think he truly accepted my apology. Unsurprisingly, when the roles were reversed he wasn't there for me, but in truth we'd never reconciled since I'd undone something that had seemed tightly bound.
And there he might be, a few yards in front of me. What to do? Let it pass? Embarrass myself by hailing the wrong man (I'm genuinely not 100% sure it's him. I think it is, but I wouldn't bet Miss C or the tiny one on it)? Endure the awkwardness of him not wanting to know me or, worse, planning a faux reunion which we both know will never happen? Rekindle something which we probably both outgrew and haven't got time for? Or begin the relationship as though nothing had happened, since some of my best times in pubs and on trains were spent with him and he must feel the same way?
He goes to the Northern Line as I have to do. Down there, it's chaos, a 15-minute wait which I have no choice but to endure. Just as I'm coming to a conclusion, I lose him. I've lost him forever now.
Anyway, the game is a delight, far better than I'd feared. There were some pies left (the notion of the great Wigan press pie isn't wholly true but they're OK) and the peas were divine. The press box isn't full, which seeing as it's so cramped is a good thing, but the screens don't work and there's an art to erecting the tables I haven't fully mastered. Afterwards, I ask Roberto Martinez an extremely convoluted question about his current squad having the character to win games when in good positions, such as this one. He's pretty convoluted in return, but I think he means he'll be strengthening in the transfer window. Whatever the question is, the answer isn't Mohamed Diame; although until today I though it might have been Hendry Thomas.
And although I'd annoyed Alex McLeish last time out (and I'm unrepentant since he knows Teemu Tainio isn't an attacking midfielder better than I do), this time I serve him an easier one since his charges have done pretty well since their cause was seemingly lost. He's friendly and eloquent for which I'm childishly grateful. Aah.

Soundtrack
Alexander O'Neal, Heresy.
Always too feral for his fellow Americans, O'Neal never sounded this great again and Jam and Lewis never closer to genius. Magical.

Moment of Zen: when the guy next to me's computer crashes. My stomach somersaulted for him. We've all been there.