A few final words on fitba

The world cup has gone, and my world cup beard has disappeared along with it. There stands a fair chance that it will be reincarnated a few months down the line, taking the form of a distant cousin, the Edinburgh winter beard. For the present, however, I am facial hairless and football-less. I have been toying with the idea of trying to find a club while I'm back home. Until I know what I'm doing beyond the festival though, I can't commit to training and games. If I decide to wait until I know how I'm placed, the season will be under way and I will have next to no hope of breaking into a team as first choice goalkeeper (the only position I am willing to risk my bones in at the moment).

This Catch 22 situation raises the other option that I have considered recently, that I could stay involved in football and make a little pocket money by doing a spot of refereeing. I hesitate when I see the treatment of Howard Webb last night. Replace a squad full of Dutch professional footballers with a collection of hungover thirty somethings from Clovenstone with unknown employment status or criminal records, replace Soccer City with a frozen Seafield pitch - suddenly it seems like the worst idea I've ever had.

I know I won't get a lot of sympathy for this, but all this free time has long since gotten old. Therefore this slowest of months, July, has been filled with notions of day trips and short breaks, some of which have come to fruition, others are pending a decision and one or two have been abandoned completely.