Colour me surprised Is it ever OK to wear another club's shirt? My odd week living in a Liverpool top

This column begins with a confession. One I am afraid and not a little ashamed to make. One that my instincts tell me I should be taking to a priest who is bound to silence, or at the very least an understanding therapist. Certainly not to a forum of sports fans with strong opinions and keyboards full of potential swears.

- Emma John

Scourging rods at the ready, then: this week I have been wearing a Liverpool top. I am not a Liverpool fan. I understand the line that I have crossed. For most of my life, I would have been the first to draw that line. I would have scratched it across the pavement in a horrid squeal of chalk and dared you to defy it. This fall from grace started innocently enough, and if you're in a mind to be generous, I'll explain.

My mother was a lifelong Liverpool fan (she was not from Liverpool, nor is any of my family) and when my niece was turning three, I discovered that the club sold a kid-size throwback bomber jacket. I bought it for her birthday, partly because I knew it would annoy her football-refusenik parents, but mostly because there is no cuter sight than a little girl with a tumble of curls wearing Shankly-era training gear.

Six years later, her little brother is about to outgrow the hand-me-down. Some idle browsing for larger sizes alerts me to the adult version. With a tap it is in my cart. In a click it is on its way. The politics of wearing it have not yet occurred. And then on Sunday, the very same day it arrives on my doorstep, Liverpool win the league.