Live from a Volvo garage

On my way to Grantham one November Saturday, it became increasingly obvious that I would never reach the ground for the kick-off. A quarter of an hour after the start I was still miles away, and so I pulled into a Volvo garage and asked if I could use the phone.
'For the BBC, I'll reverse the charges.'
I waited silently for my introduction and then hurled myself into it: 'It's been really end to end stuff so far this afternoon with neither team getting the upper hand. Matlock forced a corner in the first minute, but Grantham were soon on the attack and Wilson had to be quick off his line to tidy up what could have been a dangerous situation.'
I carried on in this vein for a minute or so ending with: 'The score here at Grantham. Grantham nil, Matlock nil. Now back to the studio.'
I thanked the salesman for the use of his phone.
'No trouble.'
'You got me out of a hole.'
'Don't mention it - but I'll never trust you buggers again.'
At the ground with twenty-five minutes gone. I collared a man on the turnstile. 'What's the score?'
'Nil-nil,'
'Anything happened?'
'It's been end to end stuff, really. Matlock had a corner early on, but we should have scored straight after - your goalie had to be quick off his line.'

On Saturdays, I could shut out all my worries and fears for the afternoon - drown them all in Bovril, steep them all in cliches and swathe them in thermal underwear, so that I could return home refreshed and ready to convince myself, all over again, that cooking, cleaning and nursing were all that wanted to do with my life.