Apparently 32 per cent of men daydream about having an alternative life. Top of the list is that of a Premier League footballer.
Others include being an astronaut or an airline pilot.
I have to confess, I’ve regularly dreamed about being a professional footballer, one with magical skills.
This may sound daft, and I’m letting you enter an area of my mind not even my wife has been in, but I do regularly wander off thinking of a life where I have footballing superpowers.
The daydream is simple.
I play for Pompey, but I possess so much skill that I can defy the laws of physics in what I can do with a football.
I can control any ball passed to me at any speed.
I can pass the ball to whoever I want in any area of the pitch.
Whatever I want a ball to do, it will do.
I will score that 35-yard free-kick.
I will spray killer passes to the centre-forward and I will never lose the ball to an opponent.
In fact, I would deliberately lose the ball on occasions just so people think I am human after all.
My dream is to play for Pompey and make them European Champions.
We have ordinary players, but my skill is enough to make us win any game I wish.
Whenever I feel the need, I will run past any number of players, bamboozling them, then score. I’d make Lionel Messi look average.
And then I wake up.
Sadly, there are times I’m in the garden with one of the kids’ footballs and I’m there, in the Camp Nou, winning the European Cup for Pompey.
However, I’m more likely to trip and break my ankle rather than place the ball into the top of the trampoline net at the back of the garden.
But a man can dream can’t he?
I’m sure you have a regular daydream about an alternative life?
I would be bored piloting a long-haul flight to Perth and no pop star worth his salt would ever wear Blue Harbour from M&S, would he?
So the most skilful footballer ever it just has to be.
DEAR AUNTIE: YOUR NAKED TORSO FEST IS ABSOLUTELY DISGRACEFUL
I almost feel like complaining in the strongest possible terms about the filth being shown on BBC One each Sunday evening.
I’m talking about the period drama Poldark.
Women all over the nation get hot under the collar about a bit of naked torso exposure and I think it’s all wrong.
I had to endure an hour of it recently when my wife and mother-in-law drooled over Aidan Turner and other so-called ‘fit’ men in the series.
The papers even do a ‘six-pack watch’ and all this seems to be acceptable. I think it’s disgraceful.
Then there was more drooling during an advert featuring Tom Hardy. Good grief!
To calm myself down I’m having to watch old episodes of Baywatch… in slow motion.
MARCHING TO THE TUNE OF COLONEL BOGEY TO SAVE ICE CREAM VAN
Why do we still love the ice cream van?
Every day at the moment the peace and quiet of Alverstoke is shattered by the painful strains of Colonel Bogey’s March.
Sadly, in my mind, the song about Adolf Hitler’s unfortunate incident when he was at school and the Albert Hall springs to mind...
That aside, people leave behind a freezer full of lollipops and Magnums for their ice cream. And why not?
Our one at Alverstoke serves Mr Whippy.
You can have it dipped in nuts or hundreds and thousands and the like, not to mention the obligatory chocolate Flake.
It’s the sound of summer for me and should not be consigned to the history books like those good old electric milk floats.