Here is where I was, at half six on the Monday morning, before any of it started.
I was in a bed in Dulwich with three trophies in a cabinet at Selhurst, a parade two days behind me, half a million people who had stood in the rain in Croydon to sing my name, and the most wanted manager's job on the planet about to ring my phone.
Yesterday the country had called me the most arrogant man in England. By this morning it had changed its mind entirely, and the reason it had changed its mind was asleep on my chest with her left hand over my heart and a ring on it I had spent four months too frightened to buy.
I had the lot. For one held second, before the world got its hands back on me, I had every single thing.
And I lay dead still under the weight of it and did not move a muscle, because Emma was asleep on me and moving would have been a sin.
