I didn't go to Beckenham on Sunday.
For the first time since the Chelsea defeat, I gave myself permission to do nothing.
The Arsenal loss had left me hollowed out: not angry, not frustrated, just empty, the way you feel after a long illness when the fever finally breaks and what's left is not strength but the absence of pain.
Wenger's words were still echoing in my head. The season is a siege. Ration your supplies. He hadn't just been talking about the players. He had been talking about me.
I woke at nine, which was unheard of. The bedroom was warm, the October light filtering through the curtains in soft, golden shafts that fell across the bed in long diagonal stripes. Emma was still asleep beside me.
