[Lyon. Friday. 08:40 CEST.]
I woke up in a hotel in France with a European Cup winner's medal on the bedside table and no idea what day it was for a good ten seconds. Friday. Parade day. Emma was already up, sat in the window with a coffee and her phone, my medal still round her neck, and she didn't say morning, she just turned the screen to me.
It was a photo of Whitehorse Lane. Taken an hour ago. Six hours before the buses were due to move, and you could not see the pavement.
"Danny," she said. "Look at the road."
"Where's the road?"
"That's what I'm saying."
The flight home was an hour and change of grown men asleep in club tracksuits with three medals each round their necks, the Europa strapped into its own seat because the kit man takes no chances, and Mili walking the aisle filming everyone who snored.
