It’s the hottest May day in 40 years and the entirety of Bolton is on my Avanti service from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston.
But the journey is relatively serene and I begin to ask myself when I knew West Ham would be relegated this season.
The alarm bells were there on the opening day, a miserable trek up to Sunderland without a battery pack or coins as away fans are still considered second-class citizens in parts of the country.
James Ward-Prowse and Guido Rodriguez start in midfield. Nayef Aguerd was mentally on Skyscanner mid-match, planning his escape.
Up front, Niclas Fulkrug played with the vigour of a backpacker emerging from an Amsterdam coffeeshop. I left after the double whammy of Sunderland’s second goal and news of a cancelled train home, already resigned to a season of struggle.
Losing at Leeds in late October, two goals down inside 15 minutes as Nuno picked the same psychedelic XI that were thrashed 2-0 by Brentford four days earlier, was the first moment of wide-eyed anxiety.
One fan in the away end was Lucas Paqueta’s self-appointed personal hypeman, insistent that the wayward Brazilian would save us from the drop.
It didn’t tally with the strolling liability on show at Elland Road, out-hustled by a Leeds side that still whiffed of the Sky Bet. West Ham had four points from their opening nine games.
Watching winless Wolves slot three goals before half-time past us in early January was a masterclass in black humour, instantly becoming an ‘I was there’ reference point for sheer ineptitude.
A VAR-flavoured loss to Nottingham Forest three days later and we were seven points adrift. I’d accepted our fate by this point.
But nothing is more like West Ham than doomed heroism. Suddenly, Nuno fashioned a perfectly reasonable Premier League team and started picking up results.
In previous seasons, when we’d flirt with the drop without ever putting out, I’d always assumed we’d be fine. A few wins would keep us ticking over and the prospect of Deepdale on Tuesday nights at bay.
This year was the opposite. It felt more like West Ham were playing at their maximum capability, but were swimming against the tide after giving themselves too much to do.
As Leeds and Forest morphed into prime PSG, a deliciously free-falling Tottenham had become our only hope of salvation.
I share an office with a Spurs fan. A very knowledgeable and excellent writer, but completely inexperienced in matters such as relegation battles and this naivety showed.
Because relegation seasons – this is already my third – have a certain rhythm. A unique orchestra of dropped points, hammerings and Max Kilman that produces serenity instead of panic.
He became insistent Spurs were doomed, having enough kittens to populate Istanbul. Quietly, I always felt the prospect of Tottenham getting relegated was too good to be true.
Against my better instincts, I did start to believe we’d escape. This lasted exactly 23 days; from Taty Castellanos’ quick-fire double against Wolves to coming home from an evening walk and learning Spurs were 2-0 up at Villa Park.
The VAR controversy against Arsenal, and the scores of jobsworths crowing about process and ignoring three blatant rugby tackles on West Ham players, left me actively looking forward to going down.
Away days at Ashton Gate, Loftus Road and Fratton Park, an antidote to the ‘Premier League product’, began to develop an allure. Millwall losing in the play-offs was another shot of copium.
But I most looked forward to the utter humiliation of David Sullivan, British football’s most charmless owner who sold our soul for peanuts and carried on running the club like mid-2000s Birmingham City.
The mood at the London Stadium yesterday was closer to ambient than red-hot fury, as if most fans had accepted our fate and resolved to enjoy the sunshine.
There were spasms of frustration as El Hadji Malick Diouf hoiked crosses to phantom strikers. West Ham are full of players like Diouf: talented enough to thrive at sensible clubs, but whose limitations are ruthlessly exposed in this open-air asylum.
A late goal rush is enough to beat Leeds 3-0, with each strike accompanied by a volley of abuse in Sullivan’s direction.
But most fans around me are glued to their phones and hoping against hope for a favour from Everton that never comes.
I walk past a television showing Sky Sports News, with ‘West Ham relegated’ on the screen. I’ve been mentally rehearsing this moment since August, but seeing it in black and white still manages to puncture my heart.
There are no trains out of Hackney Wick, forcing me to fork out £40 for a taxi back to Euston. On the way, I pass scores of Arsenal fans celebrating their title win in the kind of carefree manner that feels completely alien.
Back in Manchester, there are groups of City fans with Bernardo’s name on their shirts and singing about the night they won the Champions League.
For years, teams like Arsenal and City were metaphorically in a different league to West Ham. Now, after years of mismanagement, that difference is painfully literal and it might be a while before we play either again.
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