We, my Dad and I were returning from the France 1998 World Cup. Sent homeward to think again. The Eurostar from Paris to London I was driving up the M40 back home. My kilt was in the car boot however I refused to take off my Scotland replica shirt, it had been on manoeuvres and had been  worn with distinction. 

We stopped at a motorway service station for sustenance, caffeine to lift the weight of disappointment from our eyelids.

Entering, my Dad sauntering we encountered a young lady selling credit cards. She beckoned us over.

‘Are you Scottish?’ 

We nodded.

‘My Dad’s Scottish’. She was not exactly proud we guessed, her accent showed no sign of Scots.

‘ We haven’t seen him for a week. We think he’s gone to the World Cup’.

All these years later Scotland haven’t been in the World Cup finals. My replica shirt is washed and pressed  for a return trip and that father living in Oxfordshire still waiting. ‘Won’t be long dear, just nipping out for a pint of milk’.