There are such fine margins between success and failure, and often, while we fret over Wildcards and captaincies, it is the seemingly inconsequential decisions that cost us.

My Gameweek 13, while more than satisfactory, could well have been bordering on epic had I just considered two decisions more carefully.

Both seemed totally justified at the time.

Firstly, the swap of Kyle Naughton to welcome back Nicolas Otamendi to my dressing room seemed sound enough.

I didn’t write off Swansea’s chances of a clean sheet against Bournemouth, but having previously witnessed the Cherries win 4-0 over Huddersfield; I expected Callum Wilson and company to breach the struggling Swans. More to the point, I banked on more from Otamendi who chested the ball into the Man City net to create an unexpected nine-point swing in Naughton’s favour.

Then there was that decision to start Tammy Abraham.

I thought I’d read this situation perfectly. If the striker had any chance of figuring against the Cherries, he’d start. It made perfect sense. Why, when Abraham could not play against Chelsea in Gameweek 14, would Paul Clement use him from the bench? These were desperate times, after all.

Only Clement knows the full story. All I know is that Abraham saw six minutes of action, almost won a penalty but robbed me of a belated goal from Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

I could have been 15 points better off, in a Gameweek where my score was already considered more than a little bit handy.

These “trivial” little decisions soon add up and, eventually, I believe they can do far more damage than a badly timed Wildcard or a misplaced armband. We fret over the big dilemmas and yet it’s these frivolous little choices that undo us. Bit by bit, they unravel the careful stitches of our painstaking Gameweek research.

I’ve started writing all these “mishaps” down. I jot them on pieces of paper, fold them up and then put them in a jar. A jar of regret and agony, something to pore over when the season is done, and I’m considering what might have been.

I fear that one day my partner will find this jar.

“It’s my jar of regret”, I will explain.

She will peer inside expecting to see scribbles on how I should have taken that gap year or learned to play the guitar.

Instead, she’ll find mentions of Kyle Naughton and Trent Alexander-Arnold.

I’ll sit her down take her through the stats, but I don’t think it will help.

Thanks to Fantasy Football, she probably has her own jar with my name in it.