When I was no bigger than a kidney bean, the football team I was going to support was decided even before my sex was. Imagine my horror when I look back at baby pictures and see myself wearing a romper suit emblazoned with the words, "Sunderland mad just like HIS dad." More troubling, if it wasn't for the gold studs in my ears no one would have batted an eyelid.

But the reality is, I am a girl, which was completely irrelevant, because what was of ultimate importance was that my hopelessly devoted Black Cat Dad had fathered a Sunderland fan. I had no choice in the matter.

Years and years passed, and Daddy dearest dragged me to match after match at ye olde Roker Park. Every Christmas "Santa" kindly brought me the latest strip (both home and away) and my sponge-like brain was pumped with football song after football song. A deep-rooted dislike of all things black and white was instilled and yes, even to today, I'm slightly wary of wearing monochrome.

But no matter how hard the poor man tried (perhaps like his team) he was not successful. I simply couldn't bring myself to care, and apart from the mushy peas and chips with gravy at half-time, I hated my time as a Sunderland fan.

Despite zero technical knowledge about the beautiful game, I still enjoyed it. But I felt no allegiance to a particular team. I watched hardcore fans jealously - how did loving their team come so easy? I knew I ought to support Sunderland and I was happy for Dad when they were promoted and gave a dismissive shrug of shoulders when they went down again the following season. My love was like the pulse on a corpse - I felt nothing.

And then I dated a string of Man U fans. For want of an easy life, I half-heartedly begain supporting them. I'd never been to Manchester so I was confident I'd fit right in. But deep down I didn't really care. And after a string of failed relationships, I realised that Man U, nor their supporters, were for me.

So I turned to my locality. By then, I was a Norf Laaandan girl and should, therefore, support a Norf Laaandan team. I quickly ruled out Barnet and turned my fickle attentions to Arsenal. Yes, I was interested in Henry and Ljungberg certainly. Then they both left and my love of Arsenal, being completely superficial, was a little dampened.

But in a twist of fate, I started reporting in Haringey. As I updated our webpages I started viewing the sport at the bottom and getting quite engrossed in the story of Spurs. Martin Jol was sacked, Ramos hired. Was Berbatov going to be sold? Was he going to stay? Robbie Keane hit 100 goals as Spurs thrashed Sunderland 2-0. In your face! And in your face former Man U legend Roy Keane! Defoe moved from the benches of Tottenham to Portsmouth. A delicate Woodgate was brought in. Would he fall foul of injury? The excitement! The emotional roller-coaster! Would my heart ever be still again?

Away from work, I found myself checking results and fixtures. And then Arsenal had their asses handed to them in the second best match I have ever watched (no prizes for guessing what my all-time favourite is.)I was ecstatic. I felt a swell of pride unlike any other. I wanted to phone every Arsenal fan I had ever known and mock them. And I did! "I though you support Arsenal?" one friend asked completely puzzled. But for once I was not confused.

I support Spurs. Sorry Dad.

I have accepted the Lilwhites into my life, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. And maybe not even then. Like many a male friend told me on my quest to find a team: you don't choose a team. A team chooses you.