I park, then turn to my two bedraggled boys in the back seat and tussle with myself for a moment. Herbie pines terribly if he’s left alone and whines like a banshee, drawing attention to the cruel woman who’d abandon her dog in a crummy car, and Tommy becomes overstimulated inside any place where there is food, pulling anything orange off the shelf. I look around and see we’re pretty much out of sight here. ‘I’ll only be a sec,’ I say as I jump and run, incanting: fish fingers, bread, toilet roll, dog food, beans, over and over compulsively, the way I used to learn my lines. I can hear Tommy’s hands banging against the window, or maybe that’s just my imagination, I’m not going to turn around to check. This is a mission that’s been embarked upon, and if there’s anything in myself I can count on, it’s that I never give up on something once it’s in motion, even when it’s blatantly bad for me, even when it might just be laying its hands on me, stroking and beating me in the same moment. I shake my head and rush through the door.

My pulse is loud in my throat, my eyesight dims and blurs as the lights get brighter overhead, the noise of the muzak fills my head, people bump into me, without even an ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’. Children are screaming – why don’t they teach the little brats some manners? And trolleys, bright shiny overloaded trolleys, greedy glutted trolleys, bulging fat guts bumping into me, the tinny beats building into a scream. If I can only manage the fish fingers, Herbie can eat them too. Find the freezer aisle, fuck it’s cold, grab Tesco’s own brand, five packets, feel fingers scraping my hair back, a tug at the roots. Don’t have to go far – a Chardonnay is on special: Le Versant, a lively French number, fresh and aromatic with notes of honey and flowers. Sweet nectar. Some have no security tags. I manage to get to the self-checkout, run the fish fingers and one of the bottles in front of the sensor, just in case.

The car windows are steamed up when I get back, Herbie letting out long indignant wails, Tommy crying soundlessly. ‘Ok, darlings? Ok… I’m back. Now, let’s go home and eat our fishies.’ I drop into the driving seat, twist around to pat Tommy absently on the head, the dog panting quietly. It amazes me the calming effect I have on that creature – even when I’m hyperventilating myself, my presence seems to clear the dog of any stress. Never known such unconditional adoration, and I have to admit, he’s the only stabilising influence in my life right now. Tommy’s moods are increasingly volatile, and his needs are far greater than the dog’s. ‘Stop that right now, Sonya. Just stop it. Grow up.’

‘Who are you talking to, Yaya?’

‘My guardian angel.’

‘Is she called Yaya too?’

‘Yup. She’s made in my likeness. Isn’t that a scary thought?’