By Thursday, the reality of my new life had caught up with me. The paparazzi had been lingering at the end of my street since the City match. I was recognised in supermarkets, in restaurants, and at petrol stations.
A teenager in a Palace shirt approached me at a Tesco Express in Dulwich and asked for a selfie while I was buying milk.
I obliged, because you always oblige... these are the people who buy the shirts, who fill the seats, who sing your name. But as I drove away, I thought about how strange it was that a kid I'd never met knew my name, my face, my car, and probably my shoe size.
Jessica Finch called at noon. She had been fielding enquiries all week, and the list was staggering.
"Danny," she said, her voice crisp and professional, London traffic in the background.
