Hi again, readers.

An amazing few days in the transfer market has really started the summer with a huge bang. It's actually pretty exciting to wake up in the morning and pick up the newspaper or check on the internet to see who is on the move next.

I don't think that Pharrell Bell will be moving anywhere, and that’s fine by me. I'm doing okay for myself where I am, thank you very much.

Not that I don't think I could play at a higher level or handle the move to a bigger club, but I'm fairly content with my £25k-a-week contract at this stage in my career. No need to go rocking the boat by knocking on the gaffer’s door and demanding a move.

But I have got a lot of experience in the past with transfers from one club to another. It's a strange feeling, it really is. It's difficult to explain and perhaps it’s an experience that only top sportsmen ever really relate to.

I'll try my best to put it into language you might understand, communicate on your level, because I know how baffling the world of football must seem to simple fans such as yourself.

I'll try to paint a picture with words about the sort of things that might be going through the head of a top Premier League star during a summer transfer.

Imagine going into your factory as usual one morning. You're feeling fine, content with your role as a drone on the assembly line, happy with your weekly pay packet. At mid-morning break-time, you're suddenly called into a meeting with your boss.

There, your gaffer tells you that another factory in a town 200 miles away has been in touch with him to see whether he’d allow you to work for them instead.

Your gaffer says he's concerned that you’ve been lacking a bit of motivation recently, that your work has gotten a little sloppy and that it wouldn't be a problem for him to replace you. He thinks it might be for the best if you go and have a listen to what this new factory have to say for themselves.

Obviously, it's not a very nice feeling, is it? Makes you feel a bit worthless, a bit frustrated. Even a little bit angry. You admit, you've not really been putting that much effort in recently, but this is no way to treat you, right?

So you catch the train up to the other factory to have a chat with the gaffer there. Turns out he's been watching you on the assembly line over the last few weeks and he thinks your work has been okay. Nothing spectacular, but decent enough.

Starting to feel a bit happier, right? A little bit proud of yourself? The new gaffer tells you he can't really afford to pay you what you earned at the last factory, but he can offer you a brand new pair of steel toe-capped boots and promises that you’ll have a great laugh with the lads on the assembly line here. They even go to the pub together on a Friday night.

Sounds alright, eh? You're not happy with the drop in wages and the town is a bit of a hole, but the lads do look like they're a good bunch here - and there’s no way you’re ever going to work again for that douche-bag old gaffer back down south.

So you shake the hand of the new boss, and sign on the dotted line. It's not ideal, sure, but at least this new factory will appreciate you, right? And it's not going to be forever. Just for a couple of years until you get that promotion that the new gaffer seemed to hint at.

Now all you've got to do is go back home and tell your wife and kids to pack their bags because you're moving house for the third time in four years, 200 miles from her family to a depressed old mining town where she doesn’t know another soul from Adam, so you can work in exactly the same job but for slightly lower wages.

Basically, that's it. That’s pretty much how it went for me during my past transfers, and I reckon pretty much how Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaka will be feeling right now after their moves. Sometimes transfers can drag on and on - sometimes everything happens in a flash, before you even have time to think about it properly.

As I've said before in this column, life at the top of the footballing tree isn’t as glamorous as it sometimes seems. Sometimes, you have to dig your feet in and stick it out.

Someone cleverer than me once said: The grass isn’t always greener on the other side. I reckon they were right.