Off, then, to Portsmouth for the first time in, ooh, ages. Best not appear too anal, eh?
Anyway, it's not as other days since Miss C and the Tiny One decide to accompany me, at least as Southampton where they - and therefore me, but you know what I mean - have family. This means no loud music until the M27, a strict adherence to the speed limit (speeding is neither big nor clever, lest we forget) and two lengthy toilet stops. All in all, it's more civilised, there's less thinking - but thinking's over-rated - and it's less, um, me. The jury isn't out here: it's a good thing and it doesn't happen very often.
And what of Portsmouth? I've always liked them since the more boisterous elements of their support who weren't the 6.57 travelled to games in furniture vans and since they attracted over 10,000 in their desolate Division 4 years. They even had an Aizlewood, in the giant shape of Steve.
Now, though, they might be on their way out, and not just out of the Premier League, but out of the actual league. There's a theory - not, admittedly, one that fans of Maidstone United, Bradford Park Avenue and the former Aldershot might subscribe to - that football clubs cry wolf and since they are so crucial to a locality's morale and self-esteem, they eventually get saved, but things here seem different.
There's the fact that the HMR are the instigators of the winding-up order to be heard next Monday. They don't go away quietly. There's the sheer scale of the collapse, there's the decrepit ground, there's Peter Storrie on over £1 million a year, there's a support which doesn't even fill that tiny decrepit ground this evening and there's the unmistakeable feeling that this is a ship steering itself towards oblivion.
How did it come to this? Where's the Johnson/Defoe/Muntari/Crouch/Diarra etc etc money gone? And what does Harry Redknapp have to say about it (the situation, not the money)?
Strangely if you didn't know about Portsmouth, you wouldn't guess. There's hackfood (small portions, but that's good for everyone), in the shape of a cockle-warming stew. There's a fully functioning wi-fi (admittedly it costs them nothing, but it's a lesson Wigan could learn). Meanwhile, the press box isn't quite as cramped as some lardy folk suggest (ie it's not Tottenham) and the screens are terrific. You can almost smell Jimmy Dickinson's resin.
The atmosphere is muted, but hey they're bottom of the league, it's a cold evening and Stoke are the visitors. I'd hardly be shouting from the rooftops myself. But, in the first half of a fascinating match they're every bit as good and as combative as Stoke.
But when you're down you're down and while they created few chances, Portsmouth have a perfectly legal goal ruled out for offside.
After the break Stoke are much improved and look marginally the more likely even after Andy Wilkinson gets himself sent-off. Since it's an evening game my first deadline is the final whistle and so my first few, ahem. poetic paragraphs speak of Portsmouth's battling heroism in securing a dignified draw.
Then Stoke mount one last attack. The hitherto invisible Ricardo Fuller does wondrous things down the right and Salif Diao, of all people, belts home the winner and the groan from the hackbox is almost as loud as the one from the home support. I pen some lightning quick, but properly syntaxed words lamenting the unfairness of it all (to Portsmouth; not to me since I'm paid to do this kind of thing and the adrenaline kick is astonishing), meet the deadline and exhale theatrically.
Afterwards Avram Grant is even more lugubrious than usual. He knows the game's up as sure as Portsmouth are down and they might as well take administration if they exist after March 1. Is this the moment to mention Mrs Grant? It certainly is and how fabulously she dismantled a scandal in one easy interview.
Unusually, Tony Pulis has a lot to say and it's all about Portsmouth. In precis, he says this all needs properly investigating and I can't help but agree with him.
By the time I get back to Southampton to pick up Miss C and the Tiny One, the latter's fast asleep. We journey home in complicit silence.

Playlist: Frankie Valli, My Eyes Adored You. Steve Stammers at The Sunday Mirror reminded me of how great Frankie Valli is. He's one of the few interviewees I've asked to sign something and this ballad - "Still I reminisce/About the girl I missed/And the love I left behind" - is every bit as great as classic Four Seasons. Wonderful and we've all got one of those. Mine's called Berni. Or was it Bernie? I never asked. The new Knife album's good too.