As frustration mounted with every near miss, we took comfort in the sure knowledge that such dominance would eventually be reflected in the scoreline.

But he mantras of the dejected supporter were slowly rising to the surface: “just not our day”; “wouldn’t have scored if we’d played for three hours”; “our luck ran out”.

As the clock ticked down, that part of our mind which tries to prepare us for devastating shocks cut in: “oh well, at least we’ve given United a run for their money”.

But then delirious, ecstatic release: Benayoun smashes the ball into the net, and in a second our shattered dreams are repaired, our hearts are lifted along with our feet, and what seemed like symptoms of terminal despair are banished. A miracle cure indeed.

What I wasn’t prepared for was a relapse on Sunday.

Sensibly, I’d told myself that Rafa was right, we can only influence what we do, not how United perform.

If they won against Villa, then we’d just move onto the next game and see how it went.

No point in getting uptight. Go out and watch some amateur football; take the missus for a nice Sunday lunch. Whatever will be, will be. Casually turn the car radio on later, just out of interest...

Wow! It’s 1-1. Foot down, must get home! Still 1-1.

Race inside, telly on, Agbonlahor bundles a header into the net. That’s it – galloping indigestion resurfaces and no mistake. How long to go? Half-an-hour or so.

What position was I in when Villa scored?

Can I stand behind the couch for the rest of the game? Don’t be daft, sit down man. 2-2. OK, a draw will do.

Hang on this new bloke looks a bit tasty – surely not?

This time the release is not into ecstasy, but despondency. Would you believe it? The nervous anticipation in my stomach turns into a sour, nagging irritation that feels uncomfortably like reality settling in for the duration. Rats.

It’ll be more than a few hours before the first rays of optimism start to creep back in.

Just think, I’ll have to go through all this again next weekend. Can’t wait.