I thought my excitement had somehow transmogrified into making it Christmas day, as when I opened my curtains in the morning I discovered Shepherd's Bush to be smothered in snow. Snow! In April! In London! what nonsense.
Curses, thought I, this won't suit the Ospreys expansive style and will play into the sturdy, if unspectacular, hands of the Saracens. I got dressed in almost my entire ski outfit. With wellies. And mittens.
The train journey from Baker Street was bizarre. The entirety of North London was covered in snow and still it was falling. Whizzing past the train windows, making me feel as if I were in a wintry version of Brief Encounters.
We got to Watford. I can't imagine ever having any desire to live in Watford. What joy is there to be had in Watford? None. I can confirm.
We froze in the shabby stands of the Vicarage Road stadium while the Ospreys fumbled their way to a undeserving loss. A miserable way to spend a Sunday. Especially when I could've stayed at home and made a snowman. In April.
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