Deborah Ross: I filled my car up with diesel instead of petrol. It was all Fabio's fault

World Cup Widow: It seems that it is now perfectly permissible to blame Fabio Capello for almost anything
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Oh dear. England are out of the World Cup – it happened on Sunday, I think, or it might have been Tuesday – and I was heartbroken until, around two seconds later, I realised I didn't have to be, because I just didn't care.

I could have pretended to care, I suppose. I could have passed myself off as someone who cared, but I'm not very good at that kind of thing. I once tried to pass myself off as a supermodel, and didn't get anywhere. The doormen at Vogue House told me to clear off, while the bookers at Models One took out some kind of injunction preventing me from ever going within two miles of their offices again.

This experience rather put me off trying to pass myself off as something I'm not but I may, even so, try to pass myself off as a one-legged shot-putter in time for the next Paralympics. As it is, I've already put one of my legs on Ebay but, alas, there have been no bids thus far. Honestly, what's wrong with people today? Aren't we all meant to be supporting our sports men and women? If I thought I had it in me to be a knee-less synchronised swimmer, would no one bid for my knees? No wonder this country never gets anywhere.

Anyhow, the best thing to emerge from England's defeat – which broke my heart, right up until the moment I realised it hadn't – is that it seems perfectly permissible to blame Fabio Capello for almost everything. I stubbed my toe on a door jamb just this morning, and blamed Fabio. "Fabio," I railed. "Can't you even watch where I'm going? And the amount they pay you!" This made a nice change from having to blame myself, which ~ I might have been forced to do, had it been my fault, rather than Fabio's. Sometimes, I blame the FA, who are, apparently, out of touch and incompetent, and sometimes the players who, some say, are spoiled and not as good as they think they are, but mostly I find it easiest to blame Fabio. "Fabio," I raged the other day, when I put diesel into the car instead of petrol. "You're a fool!"

And the nice AA man who towed me to the garage confirmed this was true. "Fabio is a fool," he said, "and he should be sacked." I agreed. I said: "Stubbing someone else's toe on a door jamb is one thing, but to then put diesel in their petrol car? It's just not on." I then asked the nice AA man if he wanted to bid for my knees. He said: "I won't, if it's all the same to you." Or a leg? "No thanks." Sex? "Rather not." And then he sped off. Weird, considering I got to within two miles of being on the books of Models One. It's not like I'm unattractive or anything.

And so the week progressed. I ate too much cake. Fabio's fault. I spent far too long footling around on YouTube – I so love funny animals doing funny things! – when I should have been working. Fabio's fault. I meant to go for a run, but didn't bother. Fabio's fault.

I got the garage bill for the car which, it being Fabio's fault, I have since forwarded to his Swiss villa. I do hope he doesn't get angry when he opens it.

What does Fabio look like when he's angry, anyhow? I'm sure no one has the faintest idea. I'm trying, now, to imagine him with an angry face but, no, it's just not there. Still, I enclosed a nice note, adding that if he ever wanted to bid for knees or a leg, I could point him in the right direction. I've yet to hear back, but do hope he takes up this offer or I'm never going to get to the Paralympics, and what a tragedy that would be. It may even break my heart for another two seconds. I don't even know if I could take it.