Tim Dowling: a festive miracle – I managed a proper chat about football

I am bad at Christmas shopping, but my wife is good at it, and so, as it happens, are all three of my sons. The presents they’ve ordered keep arriving at my door, because they know I am always home.

I shop so little that when I do finally get out there at Christmas time I’m inevitably drawn to things I might like or need: gadgets, toiletries, new shoes. If I’m not careful I can come home laden only with presents for myself. But even that can’t happen unless I get out there.

“I’m going shopping,” my wife says, leaning into the door of my office shed in the morning.

“But I was going shopping today,” I say. “You shopped yesterday.”

“And Ray’s coming at about midday,” she says. Ray is the window cleaner.

“Wait, so I’m trapped here waiting to let Ray in?” I say.

“That is correct,” my wife says.

“I waited in for Ray last week,” I say. “And he never turned up.”

“He had a bug,” she says. “Bye.”

Ray has cleaned our windows twice a year for at least 20 years, on a schedule of his own making. He is a diehard Queens Park Rangers supporter, and considers me to be a devoted Chelsea fan because my sons are Chelsea fans. While I am broadly supportive of Chelsea’s aims, I don’t really keep abreast of developments. Consequently I’ve never been able to muster enough football chat to last a whole haircut.

Ray doesn’t seem to notice this. Twice a year, when he comes out to do my office shed windows, we have an intense 15-minute conversation about the fortunes of both Chelsea and QPR, to which I contribute absolutely nothing of substance. My imposture is as transparent as a clean glass pane, but Ray doesn’t appear to see through it. Perhaps he just thinks I’m unfriendly.

Something occurs to me: I’ve never managed a normal football exchange with Ray, but I’ve also never had what I have now: two hours’ notice. I type “Chelsea” into Google.

I’m shocked by what I see. Oh my God, I think – we’re second, after five wins on the trot! How did I miss this? And QPR are currently near the bottom of the Championship. Poor Ray!

I make myself a little cheat sheet on a scrap of paper: recent scores, upcoming fixtures, noteworthy goals, the name of QPR’s manager – Martí Cifuentes. I try to imagine a conversational scenario where I might be required to spell it.

I make a mental note to review all this information in an hour, but I lose track of time. At some point I get a text from Ray saying he’s on his way, but I don’t see it until midday.

By the time I get to the door Ray and his son are already outside, putting a ladder up against the front of the house.

“Hey Ray,” I say.

“Here he is,” says Ray. “The happy Chelsea boy!” I think: this is coming at me fast.

“Yes,” I say. “We’ve had a good run.”

“You’re second!” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Still shocking in defence, but it hardly seems to matter.”

“Not the way Palmer’s scoring,” he says. “He scores for the fun of it!”

“And, um, Jackson,” I say. “But you’re probably not so happy these days.”

“It’s been terrible,” he says, “We’ve had so many injuries.”

“There’s still plenty of time,” I say. “And now you’ve got that Japanese guy.” The name escapes me; my cheat sheet is in my office.

“Yeah,” says Ray’s son. “He’s good.”

“What is he, on loan?” I say, already knowing the answer.

“That’s right, yeah,” says Ray.

I think: this has been one of my most successful human interactions of the year, but I need an exit strategy.

“What’s best, Ray?” I say. “Should I leave the garden door open so you can come through when you want?”

“No worries,” says Ray.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll see you back there.”

Ray arrives at my office door about 20 minutes later. I’m prepared to discuss the prospect of QPR signing a player I now know to be called Saito, but Ray is done with football – as well you might be if your team had had QPR’s run of form. Instead we spend 10 minutes swapping holidays and illnesses while he squeegees the inside of my windows. When he’s done he drapes his rag over his shoulder and shakes my hand.

“See you in the spring,” he says.

My wife comes home an hour later.

“Did you chat to Ray?” she says.

“I certainly did,” I say.

“You can go shopping now,” she says. “It’s your turn.”

I think: I’ve had enough human interaction for one day.