Growing up as the eldest in a family with four siblings has been a truly positive experience but there was always one aspect that made me look wistfully at only children.

Time is the commodity that was understandably short and some of my fondest childhood memories were of hours spent one on one with either parent.

Since having a family of my own, it’s something I’ve always made sure I can do with my children. Time alone with just one child brings out a whole different side to them; suddenly the jostling for top dog stops, the bickering is quelled and for that short period of time, I realise what lovely children I have.

Last week there was a training day at the local primary school, giving pupils a rare opportunity to spend a day in term time doing something nice.

And by a strange twist of fate, I found myself with just one son; Jack, aged eight and a relatively recent convert to football.

I gave him the choice of (within reason) whatever he wanted to do.

Much as my middle-class aspirations were hoping he’d choose a trip to the Natural History Museum or an art gallery, there was only ever going to be one choice for him.

And so, we set off towards London for a trip to Stamford Bridge to do the Chelsea football stadium tour.

Not quite Darwin or Monet but I kept it zipped and decided to throw myself into it despite an appalling lack of football general knowledge or even interest.

Not being a frequenter of football stadiums, I did wonder how we would fill a day looking around what is essentially an oversized grassy field but during the hour journey, Jack made sure I’d been brought up to speed on the workings of the club.

Jack stands head and shoulders taller than most of the kids in his class and it’s easy to forget he’s still so young.

His infectious enthusiasm and fit to burst excitement at the prospect of a day in the stadium of his dreams was just amazing and by the time we were in sight of Stamford Bridge, we were both over-excited idiots.

As cynical as I am about the stupid sums paid to footballers and the over commercialisation of the sport of the people, it really was impossible to not get swept along with what is essentially a piece of theatre.

Stepping inside the gates felt a little bit like entering a place where all belief is suspended and nothing exists other than football. Believe me, this is a sentence I never thought I would utter.

Along with an international group of tourists, none of whom looked even 10 per cent as excited as Jack, our first stop was the away team dressing room.

Hard to imagine there would be much to see and, in fact, there wasn’t. But the super enthusiastic genuine Chelsea fan leading the tour, managed to have everyone literally on the edge of their seats with stories of Chelsea victories and the footballing superstars who had graced the dressing room.

Press room, home team dressing room and stadium done and even I was starting to buy into the Chelsea magic, which did at least soften the blow of the cost of a personalised football shirt with number 11 on the back. Jack told me it was Drogba’s number, I suspect it was more likely the number of seconds it took each footballer to earn the cost of the shirt.

Bitterness aside, we had a great day. The sort of day that we’ll both remember forever.

Sadly Jack has now joined the 25 per cent of British boys who dream of becoming footballers but I’m not going to rain on his parade just yet.

One thing is for sure though, if Roman Abramovich ever shows his face at Botley dental practice, I’m charging him double, to go towards the cost of the flaming shirt.

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