I ARRIVE home at 11.45pm, some nineteen hours after I had left. I have just travelled 570 miles to see my team get trounced 4-1 and I am in a surprisingly philosophical mood.
As a lower league fan you have to get used to taking the rough with the smooth.
Two weeks ago my trip to Sixfields reminded me why all the travelling is worth the effort, Saturday's trip to Highbury reminded me that it can't always be that rewarding.
Eleven brave souls filled the minibus at 6.30am for the long trek north, the weather getting steadily worse the further up the motorway we travelled.
Having got lost several times, and having an impromptu scenic tour of Fleetwood harbour in the process, we finally park up outside the ground at 1pm.
Last season's visit to Highbury coincided with Fleetwood's first game in the league, the atmosphere that day was bursting with the excitement and optimism that only the first day of the season can produce.
Today, proceedings are altogether more subdued. I found this weird considering how healthy a situation the teams are in. League football, as we know better than most, is a privilege not to be taken for granted.
I enter the ground at 2.30, with the rain now teeming down. I take my place amongst 100 or so fellow loyal Gulls fans including maniac of the season so far; a man dressed as Kermit the frog.
Fleetwood dominate the match from start to finish. There can be no denying that Fleetwood deserved to win and win handsomely. It was a day where nothing went right for Torquay and there can be no excuses.
In my opinion dissenting voices from the terraces do little to improve the situation so it is pleasing to see that our fans take the beating in silence. Most staying at the final whistle to clap the players off and show some solidarity.
Make no mistake, each fan will know and remember how bad that performance was, but each coming week brings another fresh opportunity to start putting things right.
The fixture computer has been particularly unkind to us this season as we see ourselves making a similar journey this weekend to Rochdale.
One poor performance can be swept under the carpet, two in a row is when alarm bells start to sound.
We have to trust our players and staff to be working as hard as they can to put things right, in turn they have to trust us to stick with them. It's only six games into the season, far too early for panic stations.
That's the crumb of comfort I hold on to as we board the minibus for the journey home. My bed seems a long way away. Six hours is a long time after such a dismal defeat.
Heavy defeats happen in football, you have to learn to accept them, I would be supporting the wrong team if I didn't. With that in mind my attention turns to the next game and a visit to Spotland.
My last thoughts for the day, as I finally turn in for the night, are of Rochdale's famed chippie and of clapping my team back on to a football pitch once more. Its going to be a good day this Saturday!