In coffee rooms and tea areas all over the Water Corporation, subdued groups huddle around steaming cups and commiserate. It was a thrashing this morning, and more than the 4-0 score, the suspension of Cahill will hurt us in the all important game against Ghana.
I was just chatting in such a subdued group myself, with two collegaues whose hearts are tied to England. Although they tied the US 1-1, it should have been 1-0 but for the keeper, somebody-Green (and certainly, sadly not Seaman) fumbling a ball and letting it through his hands.
Talk of the world cup threw up happy memories from the last two tournaments. 2002 when I was living in manor house and working in Camden.

Australia wasn't in the World Cup then, and I was all for England. The 3-0 thrashing of Denmark was on a weekend, and we stood crammed in a claustrophobic pub in Muswell Hill, breaths held.
On the morning of the match against Brazil I took time off work and made breakfast for Duncan and Muz and we settled in to watch in that filthy little lounge room in North London.
Oh the disappointment. The faces on the train to work later on were those of mourners. Grief stricken and disbelieving. We was robbed said all the headlines, and the big full page photographs of David Seaman with his weeping face. Oh it was tragic.

And of course the last World Cup - with Peter through the winding night to Mosman Park, in search of television. We were high on hope. And then that Italy game, which I watched on my own at Moondyne Joe's in a crowd of strangers who for the first 88 or so minutes were more like friends. And then that free kick. And then the thundering silence.

Whatever people say, it certainly is a uniting force.

As for the weekend, it was interesting to say the least. I am always surprised and a little awed when Mat reveals to me that he is human (seriously) and does hurt and is affected by my mood swings and tearful proclamations. So. I know the first step I need to take is cut back to just one job, and try and live as normal a life as a girl like me is capable of.

On Saturday I drove us to the Old Coast Road brewery and that was a mission to find. By the time we reached Myalup my nerves were frayed and there had already been a tearful episode in the car. But lunch was good, and I felt so happy to have M all to myself ... until I took a joke the wrong way and the waterworks began again. I collected myself and then the talking started.
And continued until we reached Betty and Peter's later that night.
Waves or relief and remorse and torrents of hope. I feel so much more able to handle the next month without him.

And another minor issue. My AFL career began and ended at the Old Coast Road Brewery where we kicked the footy around a bit and I caught it on one occasion with my right index finger, which is now sore, fat and purple...but also makes a great talking point at work.

And then the rains came...