Picture the scene: I'm sitting there in the waiting room of the Minor Injuries Unit -- sign on the wall says Do Not Wait In Pain -- trying not to stare at the former Ipswich & England player in the Royle Blue Army top, when I turn to page 3 of the Guardian Sport section to find "ten reasons to support Italy" and another list for France. Been there, done that.

More tears today than an oversized wedding cake. The Boy bashed his knee at the pool yesterday revealing a pain threshold lower than Ronaldo's self-respect. A pre-park shrieking outburst convinced one of his parents that he should see what FIFA would label a DOC, and off we traipsed to the M.I.U. No Jack Bauer though there was the aforementioned erstwhile PFA Young Player of the Year.

Stuck like Vladimir and Estragon, took a call from Eldest, also blabbing, who'd been to the beach with friends and whose blood sugar had evidently bombed. Be home soon, I kind of promised: luckily the recorder sprung to life for Doomsday, the one where Rose dies.

That scene on "Bad Wolf Bay", Billie saying a final if virtual farewell, caused yet more waterworks two down from me on the sofa, as on receipt of a second yellow to rule you out of the final.

And third place goes to Germany, giving Jurgen the biggest of smiles.