I came home from work last night to find the house in darkness. No, the family hadn’t come to their senses and left me, we’d had a power cut. As a veteran of the seventies, my dad used to have boxes of utilitarian candles for such an event. Ours are more fragrant and decorative, so the house smelt like a cross between your nan’s handbag and a vegan yoga retreat.  

My son, staring at the internet router in the hope of seeing signs of life, thought it was down to bad luck because he and a friend had passed on the stairs earlier in the day. I said it was more likely down to years of under investment in fundamental infrastructure in favour of paying shareholder dividends. He said ‘oh’ and went to look for a torch.

For all the explanations this season – the unexpected transition from Liam Manning, injuries, difficult runs of games, derby pressures and distractions of bigger issues like the stadium, there’s a point where you have put aside notions of luck and actually win some games.

Last year’s seventeen game winless run was cradled in a wild assumption that despite the results, we were good enough to win when we needed to. It’s the height of arrogance to believe that you’re so good you don’t need to win games to prove that fact. With one win in eight, we were drifting back into that space.

If you’re going to have a hope of the play-offs, winning games – and quite a lot of them – has to be a central feature, despite the many things that will conspire against you.

Wigan on Tuesday was another tricky game – for the last few years they’ve either been a bad side in a good club or a good side in a bad club, it’s always been hard to know quite what you’re facing. Their position in the table is skewed by a points deduction, take that out of the equation and they were only seven points behind us.

And, it was a nasty squally night. Something deep inside me wanted to offer these excuses in anticipation of another under-powered performance. But, again, you can’t perpetually delay the revival until next week when everything will be perfect because tomorrow never comes.

The rain swirled in the air, a drifting constant rather than a fierce driving downpour, the ‘half-term treat’ the club had promoted seemed to involve most people doing the sensible thing and spending quality time with their children in the warmth of their living room.

Wigan started with characteristic bombast, driving down the flanks, putting difficult crosses into the six yard box causing apoplexy within our defence. Ciaron Brown simply wasn’t having it, clearing balls like he was tossing rubble aside looking for survivors after an earthquake. 

Most of their joy came down our right. There are great poets looking out from a cliffside on an angry sea, watching the lifeless bodies of young men from a local fishing village washing up on the shore who haven’t written anything as bleak as Sam Long’s first half performance. 

His headband, which highlighted him like one of those graphics Sky have to track a player during post-match analysis, may have been a bit Steve Foster, but Mr Oxford seemed to be channelling a bit too much Oxfordness, there was plenty of Wayne Hatswell and Lee Jarman in his opening half.

Inevitably, perhaps, the opening goal came down that side. Ah well, there’s always next week, or maybe the week after.

There was no fightback, Cameron Brannagan thundered one off the post – his long range shooting, morphing into a very niche pub quiz question more than a goal threat – but otherwise it was all a bit lame. And as we contemplated whether our half-time booing should focus on volume or depth and resonance, Josh Murphy found a space so unusual, scientists might have to invent a new law of physics to explain how his side-foot pass found its way into the net.

It was barely deserved, we gulped down our disdainful holler in favour of sympathetic applause in the hope things might improve.

And it did, a bit, Murphy seems to be growing in the confidence of what his body and ability can do. At one point, rather than feed a simple ball to Long overlapping on the right, he cut inside towards four or five defenders knowing he could cause chaos. That bravery has been missing from his game, if it returns, that’s bad news for all those he faces.

Long too seemed to settle, the ghosts of Mike Williamson and Andy Linighan exorcised. Substitutions didn’t change the game, but they maintained our intensity. Suddenly Des Buckingham has options and back-ups, even when things aren’t fluid, it makes all the difference.

And finally, some luck, Cameron Brannagan drives from outside the box, it hits the backside of a defender and wrongfoots the keeper. Then Tyler Goodrham cuts inside, Kemar Roofe style, and fires one off the post for Ruben Rodrigues to side foot home – it was a dance celebrating the benefits of a fit squad and having options from the bench.

Somehow, we were winning, but as we know, there’s no more dangerous score than 3-1 at home to a mid-table side with ten minutes to go. Wigan seemed to know this and continued to seek something from the game, another cross caused panic and it was 3-2. Frankly, by then we’d have taken a point and a renewed commitment to try again next week.

But for a good block, in injury time Mark Harris should have made it four, Goodrham caressed his boot across the ball from the rebound and arrowed the ball into the top right hand corner. While he plays with the freedom of youth, we can all breathe again. 

It was never in doubt apart from all the times when it definitely was, which was most of the time. And while we can plan many things, you can’t always plan the order in which they come at you. To succeed, whether you’re faced with luck, effort, talent, you just have to take what you can, when you can.