When I was a young man, my father would often be heard to say 'he who expects nothing is seldom disappointed'. I don't think he really meant it, but it was his way of always preparing for the worst and then being mildly pleased when the worst often passed him by in favour of an outcome far more positive.
My father was and is, as a result, one of life's surprisingly uplifted men. You see, he expects little. So when his expectations are met, he has the satisfaction of being proved right. And when his expectations are exceeded, then he has the joy of that rare thing, a pleasant surprise.
Likewise, for many years, Toyota, Mazda and Skoda have topped the polls of cars that leave their owners totally satisfied, while brands like Jaguar, Porsche and Mercedes-Benz have floundered in the bottom quartile of CSI (Customer Satisfaction Indices) ratings, leaving their senior management angry and confused.
How is it possible they ask, that a ten thousand pound, medium-sized hatch can leave its owner orgasmic, while a hundred thousand pound super-car appears to require a helping hand from Pele's Pfizer?
Is the Mercedes-Benz S-Class with its Teutonic electrical wizardry, hand-crafted burr walnut trim and finest Lederhosen leather not more than a match for the Skoda Fabia and its, frankly, humdrum design, upholstered in boredom and painted in Pearlescent Tedious Grey?
(I imagine the Stuttgart boardroom is not a place to be each time the Germans are beaten into submission by the Czechs in this way…)
The answer to the latter conundrum is, of course, that Skodas, Toyotas and Mazdas (while being very respectable, completely reliable and perfectly competent cars) tend to be bought by people exactly like my father; a man who simply wants his car to get from A to B (and to tow his bloody caravan, but that's a story for another day).
The thing is, my old man's expectation is that his car is simply there to fulfil a function. And so long as his car does what it says on the tin, that's just fine and dandy. By contrast, those of us who aspire to own a pocket-rocket from Zuffenhausen or Maranello could well be setting ourselves for major disappointment.
If you've aspired your whole life to own a Lamborghini, but never sat behind the wheel, who knows whether your arse will glow with satisfaction when it finally, lovingly sinks into that bucket seat?
Think about it. How often did you pine for that busty barmaid, imagining the pleasure of her embrace, only to find that without the Wonderbra, it was a pair of builder's biceps that held you gripped in fear, rather than a state of ardent arousal? Or was that just me?
It is with these thoughts and others like them in mind, that I once again turn my attentions to the season ahead.
Once before, I have been criticised for loving my club despite its results. Accusers cry that failing to set high expectations is an escape clause for management and players, and can result in perennial under-achievement.
Mediocrity, they say, is the only plausible outcome of low target-setting. And yes, I confess, that from time to time, I too have been known to lead the charge of dreamers convinced that if we simply raise our horizons, there is no reason we cannot be another Porto - with or without the special one to guide us.
But therein, as Shakespeare was wont to say, lies the rub.
Dreaming and chasing, aspiring and seeking - these are all noble and passionate causes. For without the dreamer there would be no aircraft, and without the aspirant, no Flybe either. But with no essential dose of realism, Orville and Wilbur might have leapt from the top of the Chrysler building and the history of human flight would have been written on a Manhattan sidewalk and not along the side of an Embraer 195.
There's no doubt we all hope for promotion, however it comes. But setting this as our expectation level is really only setting ourselves up for a fall. Much better surely for the players and fans to focus on one thing and one thing only, winning the next match? If we do this, and repeat it ad nauseam, the net result is guaranteed promotion, yet we don't ever need to think about it.
A mountain appears a colossal way to climb. Scaling thirteen thousand feet seems so large and potentially unattainable. Yet climbing a few feet, this we can all envisage; a single step, hell that's easy. And to me, this is the lesson for expectation-setting ahead of the new season.
Dream and aspire for certain, but look ahead only to that which is within our sphere of understanding. Can we win the league by ten points in mid-April? Half of the fan-base is laughing aloud already. Can we beat Crystal Palace? Of course we can. Easily.
So my friends, my advice to you is neither to adopt the stance of my old man, nor to dream like two brothers from Indiana. My advice is simply not to expect anything but to focus on the most immediate challenge, winning on Saturday, and do all within our power to bring about victory. For that is surely the right approach.