It’s official – England will win this year’s World Cup in Russia. You heard it here first.
I know what you’re thinking.
You’re wondering how many I’ve had, but I can assure you of my absolute sobriety on this one.
I have indisputable evidence that the Three Lions’ first success since 1966 is just around the corner.
A word of caution, however. My ‘proof’ has come courtesy of a two-year-old boy, so you can be forgiven a little scepticism.
I don’t think I’m clutching at straws though. He’s a more reliable source for predictions than any of the so-called pundits.
We had a highly complex method for selecting the winner too, and I think it’s one in which we should put a lot of trust.
To keep it brief, I wrote the names of the 32 competing nations on pieces of paper and he selected one of them.
So as you can see, our method for determining the winner was extremely technical. I got the idea after some parents in the US raced their two
toddlers over 10m to see who would emerge victorious in the 52nd Super Bowl.
The winning child was representing the Philadelphia Eagles. The Eagles went on to defeat the New England Patriots 41-33.
We’ll now have to wait until July to discover if Louie’s chosen correctly or not.
I’m not too optimistic.
HOW URGENT DOES IT HAVE TO BE TO CALL YOUR WIFE AT WORK?
We all know to only ring 999 in an absolute emergency.
If we’re in a car, precariously hanging over the edge of a cliff, then we’re fully justified in calling for help.
A minority will still dial triple nine to report an undelivered takeaway, broken toenail or cat stuck up a tree, but most refrain from calling unless it’s essential.
The same principle applies to contacting your wife at work when you’ve been left at home with a toddler.
Only pick up that phone and hover your finger over the numbers if all other avenues have been explored, and failed.
Last Tuesday morning we’d safely delivered Kerrie to Fareham train station.
En route to the ‘choo choos’, she mentioned something about Jess the cat being in Louie’s cot.
That’s all my brain computed, anyway.
And before anyone calls the RSPCA to report an animal locked behind bars, I’m referring to Louie’s one-inch plastic model of Postman Pat’s best friend.
Unfortunately, listening adequately is not one of my strengths, particularly at 6.30 in the morning.
I’m quite poor at digesting language that early, especially when gearing up for 12 hours with a chaotic toddler.
I remember hearing ‘Jess’ and ‘cot’, but very little else before, between and after those words.
The complete sentence went in one ear and out the other without stopping to politely engage with my brain.
Unsurprisingly, I was later made to regret my substandard attention span.
Returning home, Louie immediately demanded his cat.
‘Jess, Jess, Jess!’ was the cry.
My head, hurriedly trying to bail me out of a sizeable hole, instantly shouted ‘cot’.
I checked inside, outside, underneath and around it, but there was no sign of her.
The ultimate dilemma then followed – to call or not to call?
I either had to suffer our boy’s cries for his favourite cat until he eventually forgot what he was crying about, or decide if it was a full-on emergency and make a call to Kerrie’s workplace.
I was really concerned she’d be too busy to talk though.
A colleague would then have asked if I wanted to leave a message and I would have had to reply, ‘yes, can you please ask her where Jess is?’
I bottled it in the end and plumped for the ear-splitting option.
He eventually forgot.
Much later we discovered Jess in his backpack in the car.
The moral is always listen to your wife.