Next door to Jeremy Clarkson’s farm, behind spiked steel fencing and overlooked by edge-of-town bungalows, are the grounds of my daughter’s football team, the Chipping Norton Swifts Under-15 Girls.

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On cold, leaden Saturdays, I stand and watch. The clubhouse does cups of instant coffee for a pound but they take only cash. I don’t bring it because the urge to drink the coffee has never yet found me. What does find me, as I watch the girls’ match, is the urge to play. To run the length of the pitch and make the sliding tackle that stops a goal; to open up the midfield with a perfectly weighted pass; to make an attack of sudden, liquid grace that weaves past three defenders and brings the goalie charging out towards me – before selflessly knocking the ball across for a team-mate to tap in. Such, such were the joys.

Except that I wasn’t any good. I........

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