“Are you OK?” says the muffled voice from under the duvet. 

I’m holding a slice of toast between my teeth while looking for my socks. Half the house is following a morning routine indistinguishable from any working day.

I wearily exhale.

“You don’t have to do it. It is a choice.”

“I suppose.” 

“You enjoy it” 

 ‘I do’ or ‘do I?’, I think.

The wise old duvet speaks again, “It’s like a toxic relationship.”

On the motorway, I have a car stubbornly sitting in my blind spot on the inside lane. I accelerate beyond the speed limit to put a bit of space between us. On the horizon, I see a police van parked on a bridge overlooking the motorway. I brake heavily, but don’t know if I was in time to avoid being caught in their speed trap. Small margins.

As we reach Derby, a small bird swerves down from the sky and bounces off the windscreen. It leaves no mark, but in my rearview mirror, I think I can see it bounce down the road. A fatal blow or a did it survive?

Derby v Oxford is a family derby; my aunt and uncle have been season ticket holders at Pride Park for years. We use their David Lloyd membership down the road from the stadium for pre-match. It’s a seductively Stepford idyll dressed in Lulu Lemon, Gym Shark and Sweaty Betty Lycra. I could sit here all day drinking matcha and pretending to be healthy.

We catch up over a bucket of coffee, apparently the Derby squad are ravaged with injuries. There’s an untroubled pessimism about the game; when the teams are announced, they’re pleasantly surprised to see several players they didn’t expect to feature in the starting eleven.

As locals, their finely honed routine means they get to their seat minutes before kick-off. As an away fan, I’d normally want to settle into my seat with time to spare, whatever that means. We leave for the ground uncharacteristically late, navigating the perimeter of the stadium past Derby fans casually sipping beers in the sun. 

We finally get inside and I’m struck by a sense of mental fatigue; maybe it’s the caffeine from the bucket of coffee, I’m living life at double speed. Or is it that belief has been replaced by duty? Recently, every time we’ve taken a step towards safety, it seems to take two steps away. Maybe we’re just tired of the pursuit.

In the first few minutes, people behind me discuss our opening labours, if they had their way, we’d make six substitutions before the first quarter of an hour is done, including the goalkeeper. Being locked into their conversation makes it harder to gather my thoughts. In recent weeks we’ve looked as comfortable at this level as we have at any point in the last couple of years, and, bar the odd fluffed pass, we don’t look out of place.

This time last year it was all about Will Vaulks’ long throws. Miles Peart-Harris is preferred nowadays, but with everyone adopting the same physical set-piece driven philosophy, the catapulted hurl into the box has become less effective.

Midway through the first half, Peart-Harris tosses another one into the box, it bounces off the crown of Helik’s head, Sammie Szmodics picks up the loose ball and Jaydon Burnel sprints away with it like he’s stolen a Mars bar from the tuck shop.

I’ve had lonely sleepless midwinter nights staring at the ceiling and contemplating the bleak futility of my pointless existence and the inevitability of my own death, and that still didn’t feel as sparse and lonely as the space Burnel is allowed to run into. He just keeps going, Jamie Cumming doesn’t even dive as it goes in, where was everyone? League One? Who says these long throws don’t bring goals?

We don’t so much keep going as keep chugging. Both teams are happy to let the other have the ball, Konak, Mills, Peart-Harris have chances on the break. Burnel is the difference; quick in a straight line and on the turn, Sam Long looks like a centrist dad being put through his paces by a personal trainer; slightly haunted and hoping for it to be over.

We talk about teams who are on the beach as a sign of complacency and a loss of edge. Most Derby fans don’t want to be promoted, after a torrid few years, they’re content to be established in the Championship. They’re on the beach, but it’s a relaxed ease, they’ve earned the right after a season of progress. We’re still getting there, so we’re tense and edgy and nothing quite comes off.

The injury time board goes up and Matt Bloomfield activates his SWANT team; Special Weapons And No Tactics. Balls are launched into the box, players play where they want, the season seems to be unravelling. Occasionally the ball drops to Cameron Brannagan, but there’s no Cardiff moment, which is what we need.

The whistle goes, at any other point in the season, it’s an acceptable, but narrow away defeat. There are no boos, just an acceptance. Leicester lose and are down, it’s now down to what happens at West Brom. We debrief back at the David Lloyd surrounded by pickle and padel ballers.

On the way home we listen to the scores coming in, West Brom are a goal up before we leave Derby. For once I’m engaged in the comings and goings in League One and Two. Bromley are promoted, a club so small we didn’t even encounter them in the Conference. My mind drifts to what comes next and the Vertu Trophy; I wouldn’t know whether to eat a vertu or shove it up my arse.

West Brom score again and the gap becomes five points, there’s still a path to survival, but it’s narrowing, precipitous, gravely and highly unlikely. We’re about to witness the greatest escape of all time or to quietly drift away back into the netherworld.

On the M40 heading home, we see a crowd of people on the grass verge of the northbound carriage. Their coach has broken down nearby and is on the hard shoulder with its hazard lights on. As we go past, we can see blue and white scarves and t-shirts. Someone is holding a St George’s Cross with four letters on: LCFC. A timely reminder that it could be worse.