The silence of the international break is a strange, heavy thing. For two weeks, you live in a hurricane: the roar of the Etihad, the hostility of Istanbul, the grinding tension of the Liberty Stadium. And then the wind stops. The training ground empties, the media circus packs up its tents, and you are left standing in the quiet, wondering what to do with your hands.
It started on Monday evening, August 28th. Two days after Swansea. I was on the sofa in the penthouse, a cold soda in my hand, watching Monday Night Football. Emma was curled up beside me, her reading glasses on, a novel open in her lap, one bare foot tucked under my thigh. She was blissfully ignoring the television. I was not.
On the screen, David Jones was flanked by Carragher and Neville in front of their giant touchscreen. And for the first twenty minutes of the show, they weren't talking about Manchester United, or Chelsea, or Arsenal. They were talking about Crystal Palace.
