The international break felt like shore leave; we threw our sailors’ caps into the sky, clicked our heals and strode off to find bevies, some spirited jazz and a dame. The sun shone on our faces as we sucked in the cold clean air of spring. For two blissful weeks we could forget about the brutality and haunting claustrophobia of the relegation fight. 

Each day lasted an eternity as the weight of the season became little more than a distant rumble from somewhere beyond the horizon. And yet, at the same time, the time slipped by like liquid mercury. As we clamoured to bask in the final shards of light, the growl of our lurking fears started to make themselves known.

Four months on from being brutalised 6-2 at home; a result that stripped us of our naivety in this division and brought to roost a sense of chastening reality, we were back to face Middlesbrough, hoping for glory, sensing the worst.

Perhaps if this was another time in the season, the lack of expectation would have been easier to process. Cocooned amongst other games, a defeat at Middlesbrough might have enjoyed a simpler arithmetic. But now, sitting in such contrast to the carefree days of our sweet freedom, being back in the mire was a spikier pill to swallow.

Perhaps it’s that we know we’re running out of time to secure that key ingredient necessary in all survivals, a shock result. Hull have beaten Sunderland, Portsmouth beat Leeds, if we could pull off just one of these golden heists, then our future would be all but assured. Middlesborogh were the latest of a dwindling number of opportunities to secure such booty. Earlier in the season, we would let these chances pass hoping another might appear soon. Now the queue of those to be smited is in single figures with Sheffield United, Leeds and Sunderland still in the wings. 

It started well enough; the miasma of the internationals doesn’t have the stench it once had. Most of the squad had remained at home, only Ole Romeny was required to take a dizzying global Odessey of any note; Ciaron Brown and Mark Harris had a more modest, largely untaxing meander around the European mainland, the others enjoyed, you might hope, a deep rest. 

Cameron Brannagan had managed to use the downtime to get injured again and missed out. It’s reasonable to suggest that as desperation sets in, Brannagan is being played before he’s fully ready, impacting his recovery from previous injuries.

The rest had continued to refine whatever Gary Rowett’s masterplan for survival might be. The margin of risk and reward was already little more than a slither, now it seems to be fettled even further. There seems only one route to goal: the Vaulks/Helik axis. It’s proving such a relatively rich vein you suspect Donald Trump and JD Vance is looking to annex it. Equally, stop that, stop us.

The early signs were good, Placheta missed a chance that he should have taken before Matt Phillips poked the ball wide. Middlesborogh, far from the clinical machine they were before Christmas, were loose and flappy. 

The breakthrough came in the 38^th minute after Vaulks detonated another of his looping mortars into the Boro box. Harris, now almost exclusively playing the role of ‘Nuisance (General)’ deflected the ball down to Helik to rattle home.

With the half-time break in which to breathe, we now had something to defend. This is surely what the Rowett playbook is for. Shut up shop, close the gate, last orders at the bar. He’d later complain about the loss of Brannagan and Matt Phillips, I get the former, but the latter surely can’t be the pivot on which success and failure balances.

If the bus was being parked, someone was still trying to adjust the driver’s seat and wing mirrors when Kelechi Ịheanachọ slid onto Samuel Iling-Junior’s cross for the equaliser. Peter Kioso’s commitment is undoubted, but he’s has never been a fast starter, it had taken Boro three minutes to benefit. So far, so predictable. 

The gnawing inevitability chiselled away until ten minutes from time when Neto Borges popped in the winner after Iling-Junior had again perforated Kioso’s increasingly porous flank.

By this point we’d conceded more than three-quarters of the possession, made around a third of the number of passes, with 20% less accuracy. I don’t really like stats being allowed to speak for themselves, but those stats really speak for themselves.

It’s hard to know if Gary Rowett can see a path to our survival or has he lost faith and gone back to a no-dimensional battleplan in the hope that fate and fortune alone might choose for us to survive. What is plain is that this cannot continue next season, in this division or the next.

Ultimately the result was little more than we expected; when you expect nothing and get nothing, then it’s hard to be truly disappointed. But, having had a break, the return to the swampland was dispiriting. Defeats from winning positions have now cost us 26 points. Had we salvaged three of those, we’d already be safe, retain half and we’d have been 8^th, all and we’d be in the play-offs. It’s a voodoo we need to break.

The good news? Despite the peril, it’s taken six games for the deficit to be cut from eight to four points, the bad news is that Derby have yet to play, and we have seven games for those four points to remain enough.