Off, then, to Birmingham, for what feels like the first time this season. I'm not myself. There's stuff afoot, but more immediately Miss C, the tiny one and the unborn are marooned by the volcanic ash cloud and while my first week of bachelordom was fun, the novelty is wearing off. They have a flight booked next weekend, but we'll see. If it counts as a compensation, me and the furry one have become closer still, but the moment I leave he howls the place down. There has already been one domestic accident I don't think I can lie my way through. Others will surely follow.
And, much as I can look after myself, I arrive at St Andrew's without a power cable (not as bad as the time I arrived at St Andrew's without a laptop, but that was an especially bad day). Worse, I'd been beavering away at home on it before I left and hadn't bothered to plug in, thus leaving about 28 seconds of battery time. Copytakers ahoy. Do they still have copytakers?
I never find out. Enter Tom Hopkinson from The People. He has the same make of laptop as me and he shares without making me feel like the buffoon I so obviously am. Bless him, bless him. I'd have done the same for him of course, but that's not the point: he did.
All this stress would usually have made me hungry. One look at the food - some kind of meat in some kind of fatty gloop - and my appetite goes. I settle on a cup of weak tea. Still, everybody's quite friendly. Upstairs, they must have run the press box like this - free-for-all seating; access via a set of stairs even the moderately fat could not ooze through - when Gil Merrick was a lad. Yet, the view's OK (assuming nobody hoofs it high; which is always a legitimate fear when Steven Mouyokolo gets a game), the replays are quite good and the desks are ample. Which is a word you don't use at Tottenham.
After all that, I'm sat with Janine from The Sun. Since her laptop has five hours worth of battery power she doesn't need something as 20th Century as a lead. I think we can see the problem here. The game is an odd affair. Birmingham City's season is over, but in a good way, while Hull City's is slipping into slipping away. Hull are their own worst enemies. Ian Dowie has strait-jacketed them with an overly rigid formation which fills their play with fear rather than confidence and when he introduces Jozy Altidere, he removes Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink, meaning they must attempt the great heave to three points with only one forward. And Jimmy Bullard isn't what he was, although he's still Hull's best midfielder by however long a country mile is.
Afterwards, Alex McLeish re-iterates what a great season Birmingham have had, while Dowie reckons he's pleased with a point with the confidence of someone who hasn't looked at the league table recently. But guess what? They may even survive.
Then I hope I thank Tom enough and swan off home. The M1's closed, which at least means the furry one is even more tail-waggingly pleased to see me when I arrive. A meal for one, then.

Playlist
Sparks
Propaganda
It's not even their best album - not by a long chalk - but it's wonderful and Bon Voyage remains my favourite ever song about Noah's Ark written from the point of view of those left behind. The new Usher album has its moments too.