A few years ago, my niece was over for Christmas. She was four or five and in that sweet spot where the excitement of the season was at its peak. The family responded accordingly, encouraged by her enthusiasm, she was lavished with a seemingly endless pile of presents.

By late afternoon she still wasn’t through them. The family’s enthusiasm seeped away, conversations drifted onto other things, she was sat in the middle of the floor, reaching for the next present, unwrapping it and putting it aside with barely any acknowledgement.

It became quite bleak, she was tired and listless, it was like she’d become addicted to Christmas, joylessly feeding her obsession one present at a time.

I’ve felt something similar through the January transfer window; from the initial excitement of the early reinforcements, each subsequent signing became less exciting. It’s not a reflection on any of the players we’ve signed, more that each one compounded an increasing sense of desperation in our undignified scrap for survival.

The window closed on Monday night with eight new signings and a slew of departures. Such a grand reshuffle hardly smacks of a club in control of its destiny. Tuesday morning further illustrated the messiness with the announcement of Aidomo Emakhur after the window had apparently shut. Even now it doesn’t seem to be over with Filip Krastev still rumoured to depart.

When it finally does close, there are no more distractions; the new crew members we’ve press-ganged will go into service, the anchor will be pulled up and we’ll set sail for home. Wherever that might be.

First up, Sheffield United. Let’s be honest, nobody expected us to get anything out of our trip to Bramall Lane, so the result was on par with expectations. There were moments of encouragement with a crisp opening and a nice goal from Miles Peart-Harris for the lead, but once the equaliser went in, the outcome seemed inevitable.

Despite the low expectations, the defeat was another blow in the unrelenting pounding we’ve received this season; defeat after defeat, hope snuffed out by hopelessness. Each swipe cutting deeper.

Outside the top six or seven clubs in the country, all of whom are cocooned by petrodollars and other nefarious practices, our 20 year unbroken streak without a relegation is unprecedented. If competing in the Championship is a steep learning curve, the process of being relegated may be steeper still.

Relegation doesn’t happen in an instant, it’s death by a thousand cuts. A whole generation of Oxford fans have avoided the feeling, those who have experienced it will barely remember it. We may fantasise about going down, going again and coming back up, we may be surprised how much psychological damage it could do.

We live in hope that the new players will do well and that all this woe is a precursor to a thrilling scrap to survival, but you can’t help but feel we’re fighting a tide that’s difficult to resist. The moments of hope, the wins, the leads, the goals, each glimmer crushed, the fans whose commitment is shallow will gradually find other things to do, new ways to spend their money, different things to talk about. Each blow, regardless of how expected it is, leaves a mark; one that’s as mental as it is physical.

And yet, relegation or not, the objective doesn’t change. We need to find our feet and stop the slide. We need to find some fight and get some reward. It might ultimately save us, but even if it doesn’t, we need to find something that’ll cushion the blow that will come with going down. Cardiff look set for an instant return from League One while Plymouth and Luton are only just recovering and now find themselves facing a season of consolidation. Bouncing back is far from guaranteed.

My fear is that one way or another, the surfeit of players we’ve become burdened and will need to be culled at some point. A gutting of the squad will leave us weakened. A comprehensive rebuild brings its own risks. All these signings may feel like we’re giving a good go, but are we throwing the kitchen sink at survival or making a rod for our own backs?