Wasn't it Rod Stewart in a pair of those famous tight tartan troosers who sang The First Cut is the Deepest? Well maybe it is on one level, but on Sunday at about 3pm I was thinking somewhat of the opposite as I ploughed a deliberately lonely furrow up Carrow Hill under my City umbrella.

Wasn't it Rod Stewart in a pair of those famous tight tartan troosers who sang The First Cut is the Deepest? Well maybe it is on one level, but on Sunday at about 3pm I was thinking somewhat of the opposite as I ploughed a deliberately lonely furrow up Carrow Hill under my City umbrella.

Painful just didn't even come close to describing it and I was almost grateful for the splashes of rain that meant the afore-mentioned article could enclose me in my own private bubble and, if it failed in that task, the wet streaks on my face could be explained as a simple subplot in an act of those unpredictable weather gods. I wasn't alone - there were grown men feeling every bit as bad, and showing it.

Watching the lads out there just a bit earlier it seemed to me as if they were carrying the entire stresses of our now former manager on their shoulders. Playing under such conditions was never going to result in anything other than what eventually happened because week after week of feeling that way finally takes its toll, often in dramatic fashion as was the case in our televised spanking by Burnley.

Now, a few days after those almost surreal events, I cannot say the pain has gone, more that it has changed into a longing to get things sorted for the best and as quickly as is possible for the sake of the players more than anything. And yet we all know this is not something to take lightly so speed is not likely to be high on anyone's agenda however desirable.

Working and living away from my home city I have had more than my fair share of wisecracks from colleagues and friends of other (definitely less noble) persuasions and although the phrase 'it's only a game' has often flashed through my mind I won't deny that sometimes I have wanted to hop in the car and drive to my true and spiritual home just to breathe in some familiar air, even if just the fumes of the rush hour traffic crawling out of Norwich on the A140 or A11. Right now even looking at the jar of mustard in my cupboard seems to help.

The thing is though, to lots of us it isn't 'just a game'. It's a source of intense enjoyment, passion, friendship and rivalry, respect - sometimes sprinkled with a little envy or loathing, even frustration more than sometimes, but often great interest - even addiction, and it's the cause of the most amazing highs and yet the most painful lows, such as that so many of us felt last weekend.

What time gives us is the chance to rationalise and since I heard the dramatic news I can only conclude firstly that the board had no option but to act swiftly, secondly that we all owe a debt of gratitude to Nigel Worthington for what he achieved here and for the dignity with which he has always conducted himself and represented the club, and thirdly we should have faith in those that run our fine club that they will do all they can to secure the services of someone who will turn things around in the immediate future and be successful in getting us back to where we want to be as soon as is possible.

My thoughts must turn to another City-free weekend of international football. Will I join the masses in a local hostelry or watch at home with the cat? Choices, choices. Still, it's not City is it and maybe cutting the grass will get rid of some of my MSS (Manager Speculation Stress) as we all wait for news and grow ever more impatient with every passing minute. Before we scream let's spare a thought for the board. This is a tricky one and we all want them to get it right above anything else. After all this is our team and our passion and commitment demand it.