On 28 December 2003, we lost 1-0 at home to Charlton. Six weeks later, we stuffed them 2-4 at the Valley. It's a measure of this season's wonderful/ harrowing unpredictability. 

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In between, of course, we conspired to turn a 3-0 halftime lead over Manchester City into a 3-4 loss at the Lane, when they were reduced to ten men. That second-half performance was among the worst in recent memory, and it's in exalted company. But 2004 has not been all malaise. The Spurs website on 21 January carried the news that knee-injured captain Jamie Redknapp was training again. 'It was just nice to be back out there', he said, 'to do a bit and get my feet moving again'. Aw, we thought, thinking forward to the day when he might do a bit more than that. Then five days later: 'Perhaps I was a bit presumptuous', after his comeback was delayed.

Jamie Redknapp will be 31 this year. Almost as old as Gus Poyet, who is 106. More positively, Ledley King scored for England and we bought Michael Brown, who sadly isn't a Steffen Freund, or even a Roy Keane, but a reasonable squad addition to a malfunctioning midfield. We await our general (and await, and await). Then there's little Jermaine Defoe, aged 12 3/4.  The kid is a serious prospect and gives us a strike force the envy of most Premiership sides (even if half of it used to belong to West Ham, who now have - stifled snigger - Bobby Zamora. And - pfffffftttt! - Matty Etherington).

Besides Defoe, we now have up-front... Postiga. You want to like him - but it ain't easy.
The man could miss the sky with an erect bazooka. Keane. Verging on deity. Merely typing his name brings a lump to my throat. Kanoute. That Mali business. We saw his point and he saw ours, but it's hardly the epitome of loyalty to sod off to Africa while your club (desperately) needs your sublime goal-scoring skills. Who's to say that in another three months he won't suddenly, conviently remember that he had a great aunt in the Ming dynasty, nip up to the attic and emerge clutching an old vase, fiicking V signs in the direction of North London?

Of course, this striking prowess pales if your central defence is populated by clowns (take a comedy bow, 'Ginger Pele' and Dean 'formerly Deano' Richards), while Pleat bizarrely insists on playing King in midfield. These are uncertain times. But then all times are uncertain at Spurs, which at least means we can be certain of something. Onwards and upwards.