Yes indeed, it's the start of the football season – and it hasn't come a moment too soon for me. It's been a long, long summer (well, 34 days) without football and I've been suffering withdrawal symptoms. I've tried to satisfy them with other sports, but rounders from Edgbaston and skinny blokes on bikes ain't doing it for me.

Some women – and some men, I have to say – just don't get football. A colleague asked me why I was getting so excited by certain Euro 2008 clashes. I spent a good 20 minutes talking her through the various permutations of specific results – if X wins, but Y only draws, then Z goes through and plays the winner of Group A but if W plays their Joker, then they all go to bed without their tea, that kind of thing. I thought that if I could convey to her the drama and passion of the event, then she would be gripped by the tournament as well. Hardly. When I had finished my breathless explanation, she merely yawned and asked if that meant that Corrie would be on later than usual. Not exactly a convert to the cause.

As soon as a big match has started on TV, I can guarantee that my phone will ring. It's always my oldest friend. "The boys are in the front room watching the football, so I thought I'd call you for a chat," she says. Well, lovely though that is, I too am watching the footie and I'm not about to miss the Champions League final to chat to you about whether or not you should get nail extensions. (No, you shouldn't, by the way).

It took nearly three weeks for me to talk her down when her husband told her that he couldn't go to their neighbours' evening wedding reception as he'd be in Glasgow that day for the Cup Final.

As far as she was concerned, it was just another football game – and, as she moaned to me, he'd been to loads of them already, so she didn't see why he couldn't miss this one.

She needs to have the patience and understanding of a friend's wife who happily waves him off every Saturday morning, not expecting his return until later in the evening. When he was quizzed by jealous pals about her forbearance, he confessed to his duplicity. She'd somehow got it into her head that a football game lasted four to five hours. (He thinks she had confused it with American football.) She'd never watched any soccer, so knew no better and he wasn't about to put her straight any time soon.

And so the rituals begin. The lucky scarves – hats, shoes and underpants – are brought out from their summer storage. A new season's shirt is bought and names put on the back. The ardent fans try out different song rhymes for the new signings and we all get ready for three o'clock on Saturday. Or half-past twelve on Sunday. Or seven o'clock on Monday night. And we'll all make sure that we don't get any wedding clashes come the Cup Final in May. Because we're going to be there – aren't we?