The thick heavy raincloud that soaked us all to the skin at full time was probably the most poignant moment of all.
If only it could wash clean those murky crevices of deception around Molineux then we could at least picture some sunnier afternoons.
To dream an impossible dream.
To close our eyes and drift into a calming world of serenity, where stammering novices can’t be heard, where white elephants can’t be seen, and where the words of an empathetic, modest board float freely.
With our new North Bank seats breaking up before a ball had been kicked, such dreams are as far from reality as we are from Bolton Wanderers.
Rubber stamping our relegation from the Premier League was surely no great shock or sadness for anyone connected with Wolves this afternoon.
That Terry Connor genuinely looked like it was when choking back the tears was probably the scariest sight of the lot – were it not for Steve Morgan pictured laughing and joking as our grim fate was sealed.
Maybe he was chuckling at the vision of 34 rows of seats in the upper North Bank, and the irony that few will ever be sat on, if indeed they are screwed to the ground properly to begin with.
My final crumb of aspiration still battling this mortal coil hopes he’s smiling for more positive reasons.
For a post mortem that will begin on Monday morning, with no brick in his Red Row empire left unturned in a quest to avoid an April Shower like this.
For Guedioura – Forest fans’ best midfielder since Lars Bohenan – to return to Compton with the urgency of a JCB digger.
For Michael Kightly’s contract to be resolved with similar speed.
And maybe, just maybe, for a concession of remorse to make a back page lead instead of an insulting platitude about ‘perspective.’
The sight of the new North Bank seats falling apart was bad enough, as was Tevez winning a free kick for clearly obstructing David Davis in the build-up to City’s second.
But wretched as both were, they didn’t come close to the saddest spectacle of all, as I searched for the shoulder of an old comrade or two.
No spittle to land on Tel’s head in front, no Big Mark to share that look of disgust to the right and no Mike beside me for chocolate comfort.
One-hundred-and-fifty-years-worth of Wolves DNA replaced by wet empty plastic.
A chance for them to dream of brighter days than these? Therein lies the rub Mr Morgan.