If the tension and atmosphere at the South Africa-Australia quarterfinal in Wellington was anything to go by, my nails are going to be bitten until bleeding this weekend.
The Wellington stadium was a sea of yellow and green with the odd Kiwi clad in black to delineate the two camps, and the odd Irish fan wondering around in a daze still drowning their sorrows from the previous evening.
I heard an Irish supporter comment to anyone who would listen that the atmosphere was nowhere near as good as it was the night before. Of course she used words more colourful and lilting than that, and her naivete excuses such a statement.
She has no idea that in the southern hemisphere we take our rugby seriously and this is no time for singing and doing the Irish jig.
The tension in the air was most suffocating in the 70th minute when someone tried to start a Mexican wave. It was quickly stopped in its tracks by a swarm of Springbok and Wallabies supporters in no mood to be distracted.
As a "neutral" spectator I was quite nervous. Not so much about the outcome of the game (although I was secretly cheering for the Springboks, who are a more predictable team to play), but for my safety after the game!
No matter what the outcome, half of the crowd would be distraught and the other half jubilant. I didn't want to be caught in the crossfire.
It was relatively safe in the first half, where the upbeat feel associated with anticipation, hope, and quiet confidence created a momentary truce.
That ended soon after halftime when a hush came over the ground as teams and spectators got down to business.
The Springbok try that was disallowed because of a forward pass almost caused one passionate Springbok supporter to have a coronary. Blood vessels in his neck were near to bursting from the rage.
The Australians took every opportunity they could to rub it in when their team gained the upper hand or denied the Springboks any momentum.
It was a brutal match, where bodies were being hurled left, right and centre and it all came down to who was more committed to putting their life at risk.
Quade Cooper wasn't one to put his body on the line and he pranced around at the back of the pack, giving spectators someone to vent their frustrations on. I can't say he gained many friends in the windy capital, even though he is "one of us".
New Zealanders are so quick to claim actors and singers who were conceived in New Zealand, but we seem to wash our hands of Quade Cooper.
Another person who failed to gain more friends on Facebook from the Rainbow Nation was the referee. Perhaps the yellow swarm of Australian supporters would protect him as he waltzed out of the venue to Matilda's tune?Just before fulltime it was obvious that many of the "neutral" fans were leaving with their lives as the black dots throughout the stadium moved towards the exits with haste.
Peter De Villiers moved with just as much haste, when he didn't even have the decency to take it on the chin with the rest of his crew, announcing his resignation soon after the final whistle.
Some would say this was a gesture of "falling on his sword". To me, it felt more like a gesture of jumping off a ship he purposefully steered towards a reef, leaving his crew to deal with the aftermath.
A dark cloud fell over the Rainbow Nation that day as its people realised their team would be heading home empty handed.
It made me realise no-one is immune to the cut-throat nature of the business-end of this tournament. Please let it not be us next weekend crying as we leave Eden Park or the pub.
If I had three wishes for this weekend they would be: that Quade Cooper has a terrible game; that the dreaded groin hoodoo leaves Aaron Cruden well alone; and that the best team, the All Blacks, wins.