Its a late July Saturday, and a series-defining Test match is simmering just up the road. Bloomin marvellous. I love cricket. Except, Im not there.
No, Im London-bound on a train lacking in both air con and the requisite number of seats, to watch a pre-season friendly.
I loathe pre-season friendlies. I understand their necessity but tend to swerve them like a politician does answering a query.
Escalator etiquette, and no eye contact
There is something about the lack of tempo, the absent jeopardy; would you knowingly rock up at Silverstone to for 50-odd safety car-led laps?
Yet here I am, west Cheshires greenery in the rear, and a day of grime, escalator etiquette, and no eye contact awaits.
And get this: Im not even watching my own bloody team. Newcastle United are continents away.
Why, then? Because Im accompanying my wife to Leyton Orient vs Watford. Were meeting my father-in-law and close pal Chris (inventive ways of seeing your friends are essential when you have a 10-month-old) down there.
The old boy once removed is a Watford lifer. He also rates a spreadsheet.
Those two chemical elements almost always combine to forge a series of cells tracking which of the 92 Football League clubs have been visited with the Watty and when.
Orient is number 74 for him (and yes, he bakes in non-league swings the bloke isnt an idiot), while my wife will hit 63.
But this is more significant than even that. This is something new, a fresh tab is being created because the aforementioned little one is ticking off her ground numero uno.
I endeavour to avoid jealousy, but my wifes love triptych with her old man and the #GoldenBoys is something that turns me a little green.
Simon is from Hemel Hempstead, landed in the north-west for work, and inducted Becky to the cult via the glamour spots, your Tranmeres on a Tuesday, your weekends in West Bromwich.
Then, when she was of an age to travel, theyd make the pilgrimage to Vicarage Road every other Saturday, religiously nipping into his parents' for a proper nana and grandad lunch.
Simon used those journeys to educate Becky musically, and, knowing her, she chewed his ear off.
Im certain there were few, if any, lulls in conversation.
Watford is their special place, their safe space but while they still have their Rookery End season tickets, life sometimes presents obstacles to attendance now.
However, whenever there is a game, theyre in constant Watford WhatsApp dialogue.
They howl at the Beebs woeful attempt at making a formation graphic from the starting XI, and he, cutely, still messages her score updates even though they appear on her wrists in real time.
They adore it almost, but not quite, as much as they adore each other. It is beautiful, an unbreakable bond, and it is football. Now they have a third wheel.
Upon our Leyton landing, nominative determinism takes us to Deeneys caf.
I ping a message to Andrew, an Orient pundit who has helped set up something special, to thank him.
He tells me I ought to try the famous haggis toastie, and I lack the heart to tell him Im more a panzanella salad man.
Then its off to Brisbane Road for the real fun. Simon is sporting a match-worn Francisco Sierralta shirt that I bought Beck in our early courting days, while she is wearing the top we bought for our girl from last season the year of her birth.
It will be presented to her when she flips 18.
Orients media manager Tom, has arranged for his colleague, April, to give us a tour and with players starting to filter in, we have timed our arrival like a Filippo Inzaghi box burst.
Together, my two girls and daddy/grandad ascend the steps from tunnel to pitch, all three grinning, a look of genuine joy appearing as they hit the grass.
Then comes the moment. It is subtle, and easily missable, but it is also everything.
A tiny tap of affection from Simon onto Beckys shoulder screams, I love you both and I love this. Magic.
Skipper Mattie Pollock and 71-cap international Moussa Sissoko pose for pics (yay, I have my Newcastle fix), although when I look back at the snap, Im loitering like Ashley Cole at Roma.
Orient have arranged for Hector Kyprianou - a recent Watford signing who played 79 times for the Os before joining Peterborough - to have a word.
He is engaging and generous with his time.
As he chats with his superfans, there is no sense that he is trying to rush off, and he not only answers their questions but asks some of his own.
He is a credit to the game, and it is little surprise he is greeted warmly by a home steward.
Our guide next steers us to the gallery and then the gantry of the Justin Edinburgh Stand.
En route, we enjoy a few blissful seconds in the air-conditioned announcers room before staring out across London from the top deck.
It is not a spot for those with height-based terrors.
Our little one is happy. She has no idea what is going on, but is intrigued by everything and everyone.
Her laughter melts my heart, and she giggles plenty here.
April shows us out having, apropos of nothing, given us 30 minutes of what is certainly a frantic period.
It sums up Orient, for whom nowt has been too much trouble.
When we originally contacted them to ask about bringing a baby in, they were friendly and welcoming and said we could leave a pram somewhere if needed.
The little touches matter.
Now as a Premier League fan, Ive spent years bemoaning the lack of 3pm Saturday kick-offs.
But here it is problematic as we have a timetable clash: nap time.
Given Im the outsider, I dutifully spend the first 30 minutes wheeling our girl around neighbouring Coronation Gardens, home of the Laurie Cunningham statue Orient and, later, Englands first black player.
From Brisbane Road to the Bernabeu in five years some journey that.
A confession (and please dont tell my wife) but shortly before the interval, I break strict protocol and stop rocking the pram in an attempt to break the slumber.
It works and soon we are passing through the turnstiles.
She is greeted largely by smiles, although I do hear one miserable goat turn to his pal and suggest football is no place for babies.
Most are receptive, and she receives compliment after compliment.
We are labelled legends for starting her so young, albeit I must point out to the man who enquired that the Diet Coke bottle only came into babys possession after all the liquid had gone!
Thankfully, having never taken to them before, our little one accepts the earmuffs. With a 2,000-strong travelling contingent Watford rarely meet Orient and plenty of X-rated language, her tiny ears might have suffered otherwise.
At half-time, a long-time friend of the family comes to meet us, before I move to a quieter spot and meet another family who follow Watford everywhere.
They are brilliant with her, as if she is family too. I guess everyone in that away end is, right?
Sissoko - who else?! - scores the first goal our girl sees live.
He now lacks the burning pace that saw him run the long way around Ashley Cole on his home Newcastle debut, but it is a composed finish.
The gal is more confused than happy. The game finishes level, but it matters little.
We have memories to cherish and plenty of photos to jog them.
Am I a tad sad that me and my daughter may never have the special footballing relationship her mum and grandad have?
Frankly yes. I have sort of convinced myself that giving up a prime spot on the St James Park half-way line for seats in the gods would not be worth it but well, keep lying to yourself, Sammy.
However, all that is overridden by the happiness of knowing just what this all means to Becky and Simon. That is priceless.
I hope one day our little girl reflects on it with the same fondness. We are weary but more than satisfied on another packed train home.
It has been a special day, in no small part thanks to Orient.
91 to go.
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