There’s only one of us this morning because Mo, the accident-prone sister (let’s hope I’m not tempting fate here), is hors de combat.  She went out early a few days ago to do her power walking but didn’t even get started on the serious stuff because she turned her ankle, fell and broke her right shoulder.

Fortunately, she’d taken her phone and it had just enough juice for her to summon hubby, in his slippers, to transport her, very slowly – every bump was agony – and as smoothly as possible to the hospital. The sainted Malcolm, who keeps Mo moving, said cheerfully, “You’ll be all right by Christmas.” So, not long now.

I’m sorry (well, not really) but it’s another football-related travelogue from me. Two friends are just back from a trip to the Galapagos and Machu Picchu; others are on a whirlwind tour of Japan; others are just off to India for a month; yet others have trips pending to Vietnam, Thailand, Australia, Singapore, Barbados and even the USA, impending presidential election notwithstanding.

And where am I off to? Yes, N17 again, a journey that seems to involve more planning than a round-the-world trip – at least I could leave that to Trailfinders or some other experts. Mind you, my forays to deepest Tottenham might test even them, should they be foolhardy enough to accept the challenge.

This time the journey involved a detour to Finchley for a funeral at midday, so that brought into play a whole new set of logistics. To drive or not to drive? That notion was quickly dismissed, my heart quailing at the thought of finding my way there in time; having to park; pay the congestion charge (or whatever it’s called now); find the wake; park again; not have a drink (champagne was on offer); then find somewhere to park for the match, scheduled to kick off at 2000; then drive home. You get the picture.

So the train it was. Here we go again!

The latest train back to the Midlands is the 2330 to Wolverhampton, stopping at Birmingham International (fingers crossed, it has been known to miss out Coventry and Birmingham altogether, throwing us off at Rugby to wait for a bus). That gives me half a chance to watch the whole match and make it back to Euston in time – just.

So, what train to get in plenty of time to make the funeral? Not wanting to take any chances, I plumped for the 0816 London Northwestern, slow but steady (ever the optimist, as every train traveller must be) and a lot cheaper than the alternatives. Only one problem now: how to get to the station, which is beside the airport, at that hour of the day? Leave it just a fraction too late and, as I know to my shame, you get snarled up in traffic and miss the plane.

My punctual friends reckoned that I had to be past The Belfry (see, golf has got a mention) no later than 0700, so I set the alarm for 0600 and left the house, showered despite a glitch with the boiler, just after 0630. Any number of people, binmen included, had already got their show on the road and one friend, who flew down from Dundee for the funeral, was up at 0400.

I reached Bassetts Pole and the road to the Belfry (more golf!) without too much trouble but then things slowed down to a near crawl. Surely the traffic can’t be backed up all the way to the M42 already!!!  Patience.  Breathe.  You’re in plenty of time.

Halfway along I saw a flashing light and realised what the problem was: a blankety-blank tractor.  Dai, who would have been 86 last Tuesday and believed passionately that tractors belonged in fields, would have been incandescent.  I did swear out loud, in Anglo-Saxon but it was a bit of a relief that this queue at least wasn’t terminal, so I laughed.  Turned out it was some sort of digger (apologies to all tractor boys and girls) and it turned right just before the Belfry (I’ve resisted the temptation to mention that game again), a fraction before the witching hour of 0700.

Joining the M42 was a bit fraught – roadworks reducing the slip road to one lane – but thank goodness I wasn’t joining the cars at a standstill in the queue for the M6 and arrived at my destination without further alarms.  A word to the unwary though: the road to the station is populated by a huge number of the country’s traffic cones and is a bit (a lot) of a confusing maze.  Also, even at 0730 the car park is jam-packed.  “Do people actually LIVE at the airport?” I asked a fellow parker in early-morning exasperation.

But I made it, got my train and as we approached Euston, turned my attention to breakfast and the delays on the Northern Line, my route to the crem….

Fear not, I was in plenty of time for the service and the wake.    And later on, the mighty Totspurs smashed AZ Alkmaar 1-nil…It was a good day.

Just a footnote from last Saturday when, praise be, Spurs did produce a burst of brilliance to ‘ammer the ‘ammers – but I wasn’t there.  The match was at 1230 and my trusted osteopath, who’s off on a well-earned break soon, had a cancellation at 1300.  Wouldn’t you know.  My creaking joints made the only decision possible and I put the ticket on ticket exchange (no train booked in advance, so that wasn’t a consideration).

As I limped in for my treatment we were 1-nil down and when I staggered out we were 4-1 up!  I skipped home.  Almost.

Last but by no means least, many congrats to the victorious Whittington Heath team who beat Copt Heath 5-2 to win the Taskers Trophy at Beeston Fields last Sunday.