It is just before 7am on Monday 21 September and I am starting the running week, as usual, amid the customary outraged squawking of circling galahs and under the beady, territorial gaze of magpies on fence posts and high sentinel boughs.
My route — a rural backtrack — is tough and vertiginous, ideal for engendering thought, speculation and ideas. For some people this happens under the morning shower. For me, it takes place out on the 'road', rain, hail or shine: finances, schemes, problems, what to write in the next column — all at some time or another join the passing parade in my imagination.
But on this morning, 21 September, my visionary gaze is uncompromising and focused. Before my mind's eye unfolds the broad green expanse of the MCG surrounded by thousands and thousands of tiered spectators. Round the outer wing speeds the compact figure of Leigh Montagna and racing out to meet the low bullet-like pass he is about to deliver is the brilliant, tireless Nick Riewoldt.
It will be another goal for the Saints and their Grand Final win is assured ...
On Tuesday, about the same time, a paralysing eight-goal first quarter pretty well wraps it up for the Saints and they cruise home despite a late Geelong revival.
On Wednesday morning — trouble. Four goals behind at three-quarter time, the Saints turn on a slogging last ditch effort to squeeze in by three points.
On Thursday morning I probably would have played through the presentation of the cup and the award to Norm Smith Medallist, the Saints' Nick Dal Santo, but I had to be up packing and preparing for our drive to Melbourne. I had one ticket — standing room — won in the club ballot. My wife, joined by our two Melbourne-based sons, would watch it on the big screen.
It rained all the way to Bordertown where we stayed the night and where all the motel staff either barracked for St Kilda or, their own fancy having been eliminated, were preferring the Saints. And it rained all the way from Bordertown to Melbourne. Just before the Ercildoune-Learmonth turn off I noticed a lamb crouched beside a paddock fence, soaked, bedraggled and bewildered. Since there was not a single sheep to be seen between that fence and the distant, storm-swept horizon I sadly realised that this little one was doomed.
In Carlton, at our customary accommodation, the foyer