I know you shouldn't expect life to be normal, for things to go as planned, but on Saturday, I found myself on the M4, sitting in a car without a driver.

My pilot, an old friend with a tendency to catch my shoes on fire, was on the top of the banking, looking like the cavalry in an old western, carrying a can.

The problem was sorted but it took a while and now we were very late instead of just late.

You know how it is, park too far out, leg it to the ground past dozens of far better parking spaces, meet comedy steward seconded from local institution, sent off to other side of ground, get searched, find piece of terrace to stand on, feel hot and we're 2-0 down.

Haven't even surveyed the ground yet and our wonderful day wasn't going quite to plan. Elevensies in a heavenly Cotswolds village, lunch in a Georgian terrace, all gone. From where I'm standing I can't even see Cartwright.

Everyone looks cross. The hot dog van catches fire. A girl behind me says to her mate that she liked the cut of my coat but the colour was vile. Hah!

The afternoon - and I chose my verb with care - droned on. The mind wandered. Who will Micky blame for this debacle? Will it be: a) the coach driver, b) the board or c) all southerners? It had to be one of these three - nothing else was plausible. I bet myself that Andy Naylor's match report headline would be The Wheels Come Off and I even lost that.

Half past four and I noticed the man next to me was talking into a mobile phone. He was quite clearly giving a match commentary. Very detailed and thorough, with quips about previous games and seasons. He was talking quite loudly and very quickly. Now from where I was standing - a foot away from him - I could hear what Gary Hart called a Cheltenham player's Mum so God only knows what kind of din was filtering through on the phone.

I decided he must be talking to his answering machine and was going to listen to it all again later on. MOTD without pictures. Maybe his mates do different matches and then they put together a radio show on Sundays.

After the Cardiff match I bought every paper. I fastidiously avoided any this week. On Tuesday morning I saw a fellow Seagull on the train. Odd to see us doing normal things and not bouncing around on some dodgy away terrace.

He told me that when the FA raided Chesterfield's offices, some bloke unplugged his computer and legged it. This man and his computer have never been found. I know maybe it's wrong, but if they've been playing silly buggers then they should be docked points, chucked out, whatever. It would make for a much more interesting race if Cardiff and Brighton were battling for the title.

It just struck me as odd this week how football exposes us all to the most strange things. Sitting stationary on motorways, hot dog vans catching fire, men running away with computers, people looking in my bag. Why, oh why do we spend our spare time being part of this odd daft soap opera?

I missed the Tuesday game due to work but got in to hear that Crosby had scored with his ear. Things aren't getting any more normal.