I found myself feeling a little sad the other day and I couldn’t quite work out why.

I thought it might be a by-product of being busy as we approach our daughter’s wedding. I also considered that it might be because I was on a diet and not getting enough chocolate; my wife, who is a nurse, tells me that there is no scientific evidence for this. Scientists! Such spoilsports.

Then, as I watched two Eastern European teams play football, it occurred to me; I haven’t quite got over England’s failure to reach Euro 2008.

I know it is not as important as the global economic market or world hunger, yet somehow I still feel a little sad.

Not in an obvious way, you understand; most of the time I get on with life with a smile on my face. Yet all the time there is this tiny ache somewhere deep inside; the same place I store my disappointment at not making the school football team in 1972.

All of this may seem a million miles from your experience, but somehow it matters to me.

By now I should be arranging barbecues and buying in the lagers. I should be hanging the England flag from both house and car. I should be shouting at referees for giving wrong decisions. And I should be watching England lose on penalties through my partly-spread fingers.

But I am not. I am watching other teams playing our national sport. I love football so this is not altogether a hardship, but as I watch I am reminded of the fact that we are not there.

I tried to explain this to my wife and, although she didn’t completely understand, she tried offering sympathetic sounding noises.

This didn’t last long, however, as she reverted to type and uttered the words, ‘It is only football’.

Her lack of empathy didn’t end there as she continued with a session of pseudo psychoanalysis; ‘If the sadness is hidden somewhere between 1968 and 1972, does that mean you haven’t moved on from being between eight and 12 years old?’ she asked.

This wasn’t altogether helpful as I was trying to get across to her my true feelings, so I replied in the best way I could, ‘I don’t care what you say so nn-nnnn’ thus confirming that I had in fact reached 13.

On reflection she probably has a point; the 47-year-old version of me can function well as I go about my day-to-day business. The nine-year old boy inside, however, is not so easily pacified and still can’t get over the plight of the national side.

My wife and daughters insist that girls, being more mature, do not suffer from such juvenile feelings. I am not so sure.

I wonder which part of them is crying when they watch a ‘boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy finds girl’ type of movie.

I wonder what age they are displaying when they all sigh ‘ahh’ at the same point in a TV programme about a house makeover.

Maybe, I suggested to the female contingent, it is because they are influenced by their own nine-year-old inside.

I sensed that my argument was not being accepted when a cushion narrowly missed my left ear.

I left the room knowing that the second half was about to resume and my place in front of the telly beckoned.

I spent most of the time cheering footballers who played for English teams in order to feel a sense of belonging, but still felt slightly sad.

As the whistle blew I turned to another channel to find an episode of Fawlty Towers; my malaise disappeared and I laughed out loud.

Nine-year-old boys are easily distracted.