The heat, like a boor at a bad party, became too familiar. It was wetter than that unbroken spell in July; a humidity which lent a pious jealousy to the sight of men in shorts, lazily sipping pints of lager at outside tables. Birmingham feels airless and humourless. It's a long day trapped in a tuppaware container, the sweat dribbling like Gwion Edwards going at the Villa midfield.
The Villa fans at work, castrated by the 1-1 draw against 10 men, took refuge in the bluster of "we'll see 'oo's 'igher at thee end of ther sayson", their Brummie accents belying frustration, resignation, exasperation. They avoided me in the office yesterday morning. I noticed the staff biscuit tin took a right hammering. I didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult; 'a draw against that relegation fodder, could only happen to Villa'. Except we're not. Well, not yet.....
Terry was in a good mood considering we dropped £40 on Saturday. He returned on Monday morning, cleaned the Coke fridge, bought a sausage and onion bap as a treat for breakfast, hummed what sounded like "Souvenir" by OMD (but in truth, you've not heard him humming. I once told him I hadn't heard anyone try and hum Firestarter by the Prodigy before; he looked surprised then hurt. "It was Bat out of Hell" he said, miffed) and even gave Mickey the afternoon off. As I scurried off to work, I swear he winked at me.
I did invite him down the pub to watch the game tonight, but he was already booked to take Mrs Tel to Chelmsford for her brother, so he demurred and said he'd be back Thursday. "Two nil defeat that'll be" he said, gravely, a doctor giving the patient a dose of bad news with the foul-tasting medications. 'Oh' I said, thinking he'd been so wrong about Villa. And then I went to work, and he went to work, and then to Chelmsford, and it was 2-0, and he didn't text me with a defiant "Told yer". And I'm sat here, the red button extinguished, thinking of the two wonder goals that did us and our lack of depth.
It IS depth. The commentator said it. Wafer-thin squad of largely untried players, hungry but raw, some nice play but no penetration. I felt proud of them against Villa on Saturday, tonight they looked knackered. Waghorn didn't feature, but Derby did just about enough not to need him. And that's where the truth lies. They can afford to keep a five million pound striker on the bench. And yet they didn't look vastly superior. Perhaps FFP is worth something after all?
There have been times when I've eaten off a tray on my lap watching Town on the telly, and have ended up covered in flecks of sauce and food as the excitement gripped. Tonight it was spag ragu, and I ate it spotlessly. I'm not sure if that's a good metaphor for tonight. Perhaps i'm just getting better at finding my gob?
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