Of course, we shouldn't panic. 19 games have been played; 27 remain, from which 81 points can be taken. And while a haul of that magnitude is not likely, around 35 will be enough to satisfy the basic requirement of this season, namely the opportunity to line up in the Championship next season.

Yet, a cavalcade of grim statistics refuse to be quietened by such pragmatism: City have now lost four games in succession. We have failed to keep a clean sheet in each of our last nine games. Our top scorer has 3 goals. We have won four times in our last 24 games. We are scoring at a rate of once every 114 minutes. And, most significantly, we now lie 22nd in the table and in the relegation zone. The long hard winter we feared arrived yesterday.

On a clear, nippy day at the Madejski City seemed to be lining up with an uncommonly adventurous side: Myhill; Lynch, Cort, Collins, Delaney; Green, Barmby, Welsh, Elliott; Burgess, Fagan. It had the ring of a pleasingly attack-minded 4-4-2 to it. In theory, at least.

It did not take long for Myhill to pull off the first of a series of jaw-dropping saves. Five minutes to be exact, when Convey's crashing volley saw our gloved hero fling himself across his goal to tip acrobatically wide. Lynch cleared the resulting corner off the line, and already the omens were bad as Reading poured forward, and what was maybe intended to be a 4-4-2 turned into an ugly, discordant wreck of players scrambling desperately to shore up repeated breaches, with Lynch and Delaney being given a particularly severe runaround out wide.

Now, before we continue, a word about the Madejski. It lacks the majesty of the Circle, obviously, but slots in among the better stadia, easily bettering Coventry's curiously unappealing new effort and besting Southampton's large but clinical bowl. Yet, it also failed in the all-too predictable ways. Sited on the typical industrial park, it is not a venue that lends itself to pre-match pubbing. Rather, it is simply deposited on some available and presumably cheap land far from anywhere. This is not good. What it worse is that even before you entered, there was no doubt whatsoever that a cocksucker with a drum would be present, mindlessly subduing any spark of originality, and that Reading would succumb to the NuFootball disease of playing music after goals. This is sick and immoral, and in a world that was just and fair world would merit instantaneous closure of the stadium, a few mandatory demotions and the slow, bloody and hopefully televised execution of the PA.

Alas, we do not have such a fair and just world, and this poisonous development within the modern game took no longer than 8 minutes to be inflicted upon us. Convey hared onto a mildly speculative through ball that caught half the defence trying to play offside and the other half hopelessly marooned, presenting the speedy striker with a free run at Myhill. Even our superlatively talented netminder was no use, as Convey steadied himself and ruthlessly fired home. 1-0, and "Tom Hark" blared out over the loudspeakers, assailing ears and good taste.

Whereupon Reading decided to take it easy, content to raid from deep rather than hurling players forward in pursuit of the second goal that would probably have opened the floodgates. Of course, the pattern of play remained firmly in their favour and 15 minutes Glen Little ought to have done better with a volley that pinged snugly into Myhill's grasp. We had occasionally flurries up front, but with Fagan wholly marginalised in a pointless right-wing position and Burgess stranded up front, the opportunity to build any sort of consistent attacking momentum is nil.

The match plods on. City are still on the back foot, and a brace of breathtaking Myhill saves keep us in it, denying first the wriggly Lita and the impressively Scandinavian-looking Ingimarsson. How good is Myhill? Of course, goalkeepers can often shine in strugging sides, but there is little doubt that Myhill is a very special talent. He is young and English, and there
is no limit to how far he could go in the game.

Back to the football, and on one of our infrequent forays into Reading territory we should have equalised. Cort is teed up by Burgess, whose strikes is well parried by Hahnemann. It falls again to Burgess, but his left-footed shot was appallingly scuffed and the disbelieving home keeper gratefully claspes it. A golden opportunity - little wonder we are at the arse end of the table with such wasteful finishing.

However, the game is a little more even now. Reading are not deigning to exert themselves unduly, while City have got to grips slightly with the task in hand. With seven minutes remaining in the first half, a Barmby header - not a noted strong point of his game - flicks the outside of the post with Hahnemann beaten. Unlucky City, but neither side creates anything else of note before the interval and we troop off a goal down.

Reading are evidently aware of the paucity of alcohol-dispensing venues within the vicinity of the ground, which means they can not only charge £2.80 for a pint of undrinkably vile bitter, but actually get away with it too. Pah.

The sun has set and the day is already turning to night as the temperature steadily falls. However, suddenly the football is a little more warming for the thousand or so City fans who've trekked down to Berkshire. The first couple of half chances are for Reading, but we repel them, and in the 53rd minute we equalised.

Lynch darted nimbly past his marker and swirled in a deep cross to Burgess at the far post. He knocked it across goal where Barmby was waiting and flicked it adeptly into the goal. Scenes of riotous joy - untainted by Tom Bastard Hark and other choreographed bollocks - erupted.

And now City were flying, or at least not crashing to earth. We had a spring in our step, the midfield was controlling possession and using it well, and suddenly it appeared that we might be about to cause a surprise result. Reading looked winded, laid low by a sudden low blow that had snuck unexpectedly into their midriff.

But it did not last. The home side regained their composure, City's sudden vigour expired rapidly and two goals in a minute irretrievably took the game away from us. Doyle superbly guided a shot in off the underside of the crossbar, defeating even Myhill, before Convey rampaged through our shredded defence, slid in Little whose neat toepoke steered the ball home. 3-1 with twenty minutes remaining, and not the faintest prospect of a revival. The Reading fans jumped around to the music, obediently obeying the command to celebrate in a pre-determined fashion. The rulers of American 'sports' would be ever so pleased to see their ideas taking hold in the south of England.

Fry trotted on for Elliott, who'd frankly had a stinker. No effect, though Fry was blameless in any of this. Both sides seemed prepared to accept 3-1 as a final score. Ellison came on for Barmby. Paynter rather pointlessly came on for the exhausted Burgess, his debut providing him with no opportunity to shine. The match dawdled lazily to its inevitable conclusion as fans of both sides drifted off to the comfort of their in-car heaters.

Lita provided some dark comedy as the gamed neared its end, skying a sitter from six yards, while Ellison had a free header from a City corner that was comfortably saved by Hahnemann. And we lost, again.

Actually, maybe we should panic a little bit. Perhaps a bit of terror would instill a little urgency into our recent torpor. Taken in isolation, a 3-1 loss at the second placed side is not a disaster. It would be foolish to contend otherwise. However, viewed as a part of a season that is not going well, it is plain that we are in a degree of difficulty. Our defence - admittedly shorn of both left-backs - is making elementary errors and not learning from them.

Our midfield frequently cedes the battle and lacks creativity, which incidentally is not going to come from Stuart Green flitting pointlessly about. The attack leaves us wanting for much, but most importantly of all a regular goalscorer that just is not what is provided by the current crop of forwards.

Nonethless, things will hopefully improve when Andrews, Dawson and Edge return to fitness in the coming weeks. There are still plenty of reasons to believe we will be fine. A brace of victories would propel us to the relative safety of the lower-midtable positions. However, the longer the current poor form continues, the more restless we become and the greater the disquiet. Tuesday's home fixture with Southampton will tell us a lot about where we are heading.  (AD)