When Micky and the Albion's fans got married at a rather hurried ceremony in Hove Town Hall two years ago both parties brought a certain level of insecurity to the relationship.

On the one hand Micky had been treated badly by previous partners and on the other the fans had been cheated on by a succession of people they should have been able to trust.

History had wounded both and wariness was factored into the relationship. We never questioned Micky's commitment to building a promotion-winning team but did he really love us?

Sometimes we might have wanted more reassurance but in the last seven days the doubts have disappeared. Glorious promotion 220 miles away was the cake but the icing came later, and closer to home.

The quiet, dignified tears in the Withdean car park on Saturday evening. The drink with supporters afterwards. Subsequent references to past teams, to deserving fans and to a great football club. A gentle, honest response to probing press questions about the Southampton vacancy.

From many people's lips such words would tumble easily. But Micky has never been one of nature's PR men. He doesn't speak in fancy sentences. He just says it like he sees it and I like the way he's seeing it at the moment.

The lap of honour at Withdean on Monday was the end of the one that started at Wembley 18 years ago. We all know what happened in between. If someone had said to John Vinicombe on that day in 1983 that we'd be running around Steve Ovett's practice lane celebrating getting out of the basement league, even Jimmy Melia's hair would have stood on end.

Jimmy, of course, would have been at the front of the team as they returned to the running track. Micky was near the back, but it was another man who caught my eye.

Mark Cartwright might not have a job in three weeks' time but, smiling, he stood at Withdean in the April sunshine, drawing tickets for the raffle, shaking hands and joining in every celebration going. In one respect he is surely among the greatest of the present Albion squad.

Two days earlier I hadn't been able to make the Plymouth match, so I instructed my parents to ring after any goal. 3.03. Phone call one. It sounded like father had fallen out of an aeroplane. The noise was frightening. Thirteen minutes later, another call.

Another plane. Later, as the points we needed were safely gathered in, I went to Woolworths to buy gold medals and blue and white balloons and proceeded to Hurstpierpoint to decorate the family front door.

They arrived home after midnight. Mother looked pink and had dry champagne hair. We all wore the medals and sang a lot. And while most families woke serene and sober on Easter Sunday morning I was aroused by 'Sussex by the Sea' played at full volume by the band of HM Royal Marines.

My father was very cross with the Sunday Times, whose coverage of this most romantic of promotions read "Brighton, in second, won 2-0 at Plymouth." Murdoch's hacks had not noticed we had been promoted.

But all I know is that sitting here at work, overlooking the Thames, among catwalk reports and models' photographs hanging daintily on the wall, I can see an Albion poster courtesy of this paper. It says: "BHAFC promoted 2000 - 01."

As Paul Hayward once wrote: "The bonfire is gone now. The seagull rises on the breeze."