My wife says that she feels like a soccer mom. That makes me the oversubscribed lad, who right now is screaming at her from the kitchen, asking where my soccer boots are.

Yes I’m training to fight in a white collar boxing match, but my workout is quite diverse: I box Monday morning, Wednesdy afternoon and Thursday morning, Thursday evening is for soccer, lunchbreaks are dedicated to swimming, I run on the weekends and then I surf whenever there are waves.

Both my home and my office cubicle look like a spoiled brat’s bedroom, what with the towels and the goggles and the Speedo and the swimming cap and the gumgaurd and the boxing gloves and the wraps and the headgear and the soccer boots and the wetsuit and all the odours that each of these things carry with them… Everything is either airing out over a swivel chair, pushed into a drawer somewhere or making up the montage of material that is my floordrobe.

There’s a knot of sweaty T-shirts stinking up the wash basket, three different types of shoes at the front door and my wallet is pregnant with membership cards.

My wife has been pretty supportive though. And do you want to know why? Because she benefits.

Or she will, just as soon as I manage to pencil in some bedroom time between all my extramural activities.