There is nowhere I like better for a Nanna Visit than the home of my (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys. This afternoon, however, was probably not the best day for it.
those of you who have managed to remain unmoved by Euro 2016, I should perhaps explain that today England's footie team played Wales's footie team in a bid to secure a coveted place in the last sixteen. Wales already had a win - and three points - under their
leek-trimmed belts, while the Rose of England had only managed to muster a single point from their encounter with the Russian Bear. I hope you are impressed with my command of the tournament thus far. Especially since I have managed to curb my tongue and haven't
mentioned Gareth Bale's top-knot or Wayne Rooney's smooth forehead or the fact that the English strip looks like a bargain job-lot picked up from the Samaritans charity shop down the road. No, Mr B has instructed me not to trivialise the Beautiful Game with
such observations and I am trying my best to be a dutiful wife. At least for the duration of the Big Match.
At his home in Cardiff My Boy is somewhat outnumbered, living as he does with a Welsh wife and the
three (Not So Little) Welsh Boys, only one of whom sits uneasily on the footballing fence on account of feeling sorry for his father's status as Lone England Supporter in the Household. My Darling Daughter in Law posts a photo on Facebook of the Duracell Bunny,
wearing his red Welsh shirt (what else?) and with the hopeful caption: "But Wales are going to win, aren't they, Mummy?"
There's no such problem of conflicting interests in our house, there being only Mr B
and I watching our TV. Mr B was delighted when I declared my intention to watch the match companionably by his side. It's not as exciting as being in the crowd at the stadium, or in a pub with a big screen - but football matches really shouldn't be watched
alone, don't you agree? Plus I have an important knitting project demanding completion and an afternoon in the armchair presents the ideal opportunity to get the knitting needles clicking and clacking. Though this will doubtless annoy my fellow spectator no
One of the things I like about watching football matches with Mr B is his uncanny knack of making a comment or observation which, just minutes later, the commentator will come out with - for all the world
as if he or she has an unmatched fount of knowledge on All Matters Football. "My husband said it first!" I keep yelling at the screen while Mr B allows himself a self-deprecating smirk. I tell him that he really should be invited into the commentators' box,
though I doubt if he'd be allowed to take me in with him in case I forgot myself and made an unfortunate remark about those skinny red socks worn by the England players.
At half time, Wales is leading and
I make us both a consolatory cup of coffee. Mr B says coffee is my Answer to Everything. I wonder aloud if the England Manager has thought about putting the kettle on? Mr B says, hang the coffee, Our Roy needs to be brave about his substitutions and outlines
exactly what needs to be done if the second half is to see the Three Lions cruise (can lions cruise?) to victory over the fire-breathing dragon of Wales. Interestingly, Our Roy does exactly what Mr B advises. My fella definitely knows his football.
In the end, as footie aficionados know, England triumphs - but the victory does not dash the Red Dragon's hopes of progressing further in the competition. Just as importantly in my opinion, My Boy can go back to supporting
both Wales and England, thereby restoring equilibrium in his household. At least for the time being. He can wear the Three Lions on one sleeve and the Welsh Dragon on the other. The Duracell Bunny will be pleased to have his Daddy back on side.
My advice to the Welsh Manager for what it's worth: play the next match in your red shirts. Really, today's strip did nothing for the team, it was dull dull, dull. I couldn't think of a single thing to say about it.
Red shirts for the Red Dragons.
You know it makes sense.