Saturday 11th September

Big date. I wonder if writing it will ever feel possible without that twinge, the wince of collective memory. Hard to believe it's been nine years - but then I've said that every 9/11 since 2002. The tenth anniversary looms, too.

K is off to Dorset this weekend to teensit her little brother while her parents are away on holiday. Before she heads off, I go to Tesco to stock up on bread and bacon for a farewell breakfast - which goes down a treat. We flop around and catch up on a bit of telly while K packs and gets ready to go. My plans for the day, to start with, revolve around football, feeling that I haven't managed to watch enough of it as I would have liked by this stage of the season, so Alex and I have arranged to meet at The World's End to catch the 12.45 kick-off match between Everton and Man United.

We come out of the tube at Finsbury Park and head to The World's End (my favourite pub in London for watching football, despite often being packed to the rafters with Gooners), remembering instantly that Arsenal are at home this afternoon, meaning cash-only, plastic cups and the aforementioned Gooners in abundance. The atmosphere is great though, since everyone bar one foolish man is supporting Everton - and when they take the lead early on they receive the loudest cheer I've heard for a while; this despite the fact there probably isn't a single Toffees fan in the house. United's quick equaliser is greeted by a muffled hooray from the single Man U fan in the corner - he doesn't make another peep all game.

United manage to get to 3-1 with half an hour to play and the game looks dead - until stoppage time rolls around and Everton, astonishgly, pull two goals back in as many minutes and the remaining folks in the pub (those who haven't wandered off to the Emirates) go mental with delight. 3-3 the final score, and Alex and I contentedly head off to grab some lunch.

We eat at the nearby Sunshine Cafe (a former favourite of K's and mine, when we lived in the area last year) before walking up to Crouch End for a mooch about the shops and a pint in the Queen's. We sit here for a while before I'm suddenly overcome by tiredness (starting too early, I think - Sky's fault for such a ridiculous kick-off time) and so we head back to mine for wine and telly. As we arrive the BBC have just started showing Burnley v Preston North End (with the presumably grumpy Alex Ferguson in attendance to see his son, Darren, now Preston manager). This one turns out to be a cracker too - and another one to upset the Ferguson family. Just like his dad's team, Preston lead Burnley 3-1 going into stoppage time, whereupon Chris Iwelumo goes mental and helps his team make the score 4-3 at the final whistle. Alex and I seem to have done well today - two TV games, 13 goals.

We watch X-Factor as is now grimly customary, and - enthused by the amount of Shane Meadows stuff on TV recently - watch Dead Man's Shoes before Alex heads home and Match of the Day comes on. Not quite the hard-partying, rock 'n' roll Saturday I had in mind, but very enjoyable - and there's always tomorrow, eh?