I have good reason to believe that an Ulster Rugby shirt, my belated Christmas present to myself, has arrived in Guiseley just waiting for me to climb into it later this evening.
(I was originally going to get the black version but, having seen one when I was home a few weeks ago, I was put off by its high Lycra content. A 40-year-old man should not be seen in Lycra, in my view. As an aside, Vanessa wasn't convinced I should get a white one either - which isn't made of Lycra - as it might make me look a bit "pasty." What? With my Mediterranean skin? The cheek of it).
As luck would have it, the shirt's arrival coincides with Ulster's Heineken Cup game tonight (Sky Sports 1, kick-off 8pm), enabling me to pretend I'm on the team. Excellent.
Less positive is the fact that it appears I'm losing my battle to persuade(/coerce) Jamie to consider himself a fully-fledged Ulsterman.
This horrifying discovery was made yesterday while I was him walking to school.
"Daddy, I can't be an Ulsterman," announced White Junior
"Oh, and why would that be?" I replied with alarm
"Because I don't say shar, I say shower. Only Ulstermen say shar, not shower, because they don't speak properly. That's why I can't be an Ulsterman."
It's my intention to give the impudent little so-and-so a very cold shar before the week is properly at an end.
