A day in the life of... Jose Mourinho

8.30am Enjoying another late start to the day since he moved on from Chelsea, Mourinho wakes up an hour and a half later than usual. There’s no training to attend, no meeting about potential signings with the director of football, and even Jorge Mendes only sends about six or seven emails a day to make sure that they’re on the same page about Radamel Falcao’s fitness, which is currently fantastic. The best it’s ever been, and certainly better than it ever was under Louis van Gaal, or at Monaco, or even at Atletico Madrid and Porto.

Instead of having to deal with all of that, he gets downstairs to make breakfast. He looks for the milk to put in the frother, but notes that it’s out of date, and despite it only being a couple of days past its expiration, there’s a pungent whiff to it, and there’s no point taking the risk.

Initially, he thinks nothing of it, but when he opens the egg carton to get a couple of ones in the saucepan to poach, he sees that all six of them are cracked. Not cracked on the top, as they were fine when he checked them, but all slightly crumpled on the bottom. The membrane hasn’t broken, just the shell. Mourinho stops and wonders, and checks himself before he gives any serious thought to wondering if the supermarket delivery man is a disgruntled Arsenal fan. Surely even they wouldn’t do such a thing as tamper with his eggs and milk?

10.00am Instead, his benign mood intact, he thinks he might as well go up the road to the posh cafe, for some fried duck eggs on sourdough toast. It’s a little fancier than he’s used to, but with the unusually warm winter, he decides to take advantage of some rare free time in the middle of the season.

The manager gives him his usual warm welcome, and commiserates with him about the bad luck he’s had recently, and asks if he’d like his usual. Mourinho smiles warmly and says yes, and goes to his favourite seat by the corner.

Five minutes pass, and the waiter, earning some cash on his time back from university, gives him his food and engages him in small talk. The waiter mentions that he’s actually a Spurs fan, and they tease one another about recent results good-naturedly. Only when he’s halfway through the toast does he notice a very vague green hue on a small part of the crust. It can’t be deliberate, he tells himself. It cannot be on purpose. Mourinho holds the waiter’s gaze as he pays, trying to work out if the mould was an intended insult. He can’t tell. Why can’t he ever tell anymore?

11.20am Mourinho walks to his car, and as is his habit, he sticks a pole with a mirror underneath to check for explosives. He doesn’t really think that he’s a target for terrorists, but you can never be too careful with the Catalan nationalists once you’ve been in their sights. As ever, there’s no bomb. Catching a picture of Diego Costa on the front of a tabloid, he decides it wouldn’t be a bad idea to open up the bonnet and check if his brake wires are still in tact. They are, though Mourinho thinks they might have been tampered with unsuccessfully. He drives gingerly for a few minutes until he assures himself he hasn’t been targeted. This time.

12.45pm At home, he catches up on some admin. Firing up his computer, he first logs on to check his emails. There’s one from a temp agency with the subject line, “Need to earn extra cash between jobs?” and Mourinho mutters a curse of Cesc Fabregas under his breath, wondering who gave him his personal email address.

3.30pm He goes for another drive, now unconcerned about the safety of his car. He realises that conspiracy theories from his time at football have started to bleed into his personal life, and it’s gone too far. Barcelona aren’t out to get him. UNICEF aren’t out to get him. UEFA aren’t out to get him. Sepp Blatter isn’t out to get him. David Elleray isn’t out to get him. Deep down he knows all this - he knew it when he was saying it - but if you repeat a fantasy often and sincerely enough, unconsciously you start to believe it.

Parking up, he walks to the restaurant to let his wife know he’s here to pick her up, and in the 30 seconds it takes to get back to his car, there’s already a ticket. Fair enough, he’s on a double yellow line, but how did anyone know he was there? Are they tracking him? Is the Russian FSB trying to set him up for a series of parking fines in central London?

“No, Jose. Don’t be so ridiculous. That’s what the others want to happen to you. You know this isn’t really a conspiracy. Just pay the fine and enjoy the evening with your wife.”

6.30pm And so, in the evening, it goes. He is relaxed company. He enjoys a pleasant dinner with a glass of exceptional Douro. He cooks a meal from his childhood. He talks over his concerns and realises that even if he doesn’t get the Manchester United job, there’s the chance to take over Portugal, or maybe to move to Paris with PSG. Life will be good.

Then he remembers that it’s even better, that he still has the two last episodes of Luther to watch that he’d recorded.

Flicking through the set top box, he looks in his recorded shows. He scrolls up and down, restarts the machine, but still he can’t find it. He thinks, and he wonders, “have FIFA hacked my television?”