I run down the hall of our house at speed [1], ghost around the shoe rack, jig past the cats, rise majestically into the air just in time to smash the ball into the net. Or the bookcase that's standing in for a net. It's an imaginary ball but that doesn't matter. "1-0!" I shout in my best Barry Davies voice. [2] Thankfully, there's no one around to hear. Apart from the cats and they're not going to clype on me. Not if they want another sachet of Felix any time soon.

It's only afterwards that I think to myself, "what was that about? Am I still fantasising about scoring the winning goal at Wembley?" Yes. I think I am. This is slightly ridiculous. I am 52 years old. The last time I played football I tore something in my thigh that still gives me a twinge now and again. The chance of me being able to get into the penalty box to meet balls real or imaginary in the first place is something of a stretch. I'm more likely to be standing on the touch line puking my breakfast up 30 seconds after kick off.

And yet here I am. Imagining I've just scored the winner in the FA Cup final. Spurs against Arsenal. If I'm honest this is a recurring fantasy. One that stretches back 40 years (at least).

The difference is these days I don't bother with a balloon. Balloons are unpredictable anyway. Sometimes they don't come down quick enough to let you get your shot away before Per Mertesacker gets the tackle in. It's better with an imaginary ball. I never miss with an imaginary ball.

I know how this sounds. But come on, don't tell me you've never done it. And as fantasies go it's mostly harmless. At least I've stopped fantasising that I'm going to be the new Orson Welles or the next Elmore Leonard. That takes too long anyway. And the rewards – the Cannes ovations, the Alison Rowat five-star reviews – require too much imaginary infrastructure. Football offers an instant make-believe hit. "He's round the goalkeeper. He must score … He does."

Admittedly – if I'm being totally honest - there are moments when the fantasy takes over. When in my head I'm creating extended elaborate scenarios; securing the double for Spurs, or scoring the winner in Euro 2016 for Northern Ireland, or, for a bit of variety, helping Stirling Albion to an unlikely Scottish Cup success (that fantasy sees me as the veteran midfielder arriving to inspire the team to a 5-1 win over Celtic in the final. We'd beaten Rangers the round before. 3-0. Should have been more but their keeper had a blinder).

It's only when the fourth goal goes in do I realise J has been telling me to feed the cats/feed the children/stop shouting "he's clean through" at the top of my voice for the last five minutes. I make sure and put the ball in the net before I come back to real life though. Well, I want to keep my place in the team.

[1] Or as speedy as you can get when you're also endeavouring not to stand on the cats or the Hoover.

[2] Davies is my default commentator voice. Grew up with him, you see. Obviously if I'm playing England he doesn't get a microphone. Way too biased. Jackie Fullerton tends to do the internationals.