As the week went by I did my best to bring my wife round to the idea of moving to Spain. What exactly would we be leaving behind? I was stuck selling hot-tubs and she was getting sworn at by kids she was trying to teach. But she was right, neither of us could speak very good Spanish and what if the whole thing fell apart after a few months, all that hassle for nothing.

In the end we agreed that we would give it a 6 month try. She would take an extended break from work and we would let the house out to her younger sister. We'd been told that the club would supply us with adequate accommodation and a car.

The last day before we left the rain struck again and I caught my wife checking out the weather channel and shopping online for new clothes...she was warming to the idea for sure.

The journalists had never really gone away....getting exclusive snaps of me going to the shops for the paper and staring back out at them from the lounge window. But the interest was definatley fading. The first of the English pre-season games had started and big money transfers were hogging the back pages.

I'd imagined that Villareal would be on the phone constantly, checking arrangements, conference calls with the squad, but no. I'd recieved 2 e-mails from Isabella regarding meeting athte airport and the address of our accommodation. I even had to go on the club's website to see the pre-season fixture lists...they'd played one already, the day after my 'interview'. It was obvious that they had meant what they had said, I was manager on paper, nothing more. I'd wanted a way back into football but not as a joke. How long before could I really go along with it before I wanted to get properly involved? But who was I kidding anyway...I'd managed players in League Two before but these were internationals, how will they possibly respect me when I'm in awe of most of them?

Sleepless on our final night in the house I got up at 2am and called an old mate of mine from my Bournemouth days. For a minute I thought I'd lost his number as it wasn't under R but I found it under H for Harry.

An hour passed by as we swapped stories of our footballing days. Harry was the gaffer at Dean Court when I was just starting out, before the injury and the pointless long recovery.

He reminded me that players were the same all over the world whatever the level you are at. He told me not to worry, let things run thier course and little by little make my presence known. I had nothing to lose...enjoy it.

It was getting light when we finished talking. I thanked him for his help and got a few hours sleep before the alarm went off.