So I plug in my own earphones and activate the app as instructed on the confirmation email. There are no red carpets or dapper staffers to welcome me this time, but I know they’re watching.

‘Collect a trolley and make your way to the fresh produce aisle,’ the voice says. It’s not her this time and I’m disappointed. I’ve found myself thinking of the intimate instructive voice from Idiopathy a few times too often these last few months – she seems to have lodged somewhere in my psyche, rippling there sometimes, stretching languidly.

But my guide today is a bland male voice. ‘Let’s start by feeling,’ he says. ‘Choose two large fruits or vegetables and hold them in your hands. Consider the texture of the skin, feel the heft in your hands.’

I was trained not to play with food, and I especially remember my mother’s warnings not to fondle the veggies in the supermarket when I went to the shops with her as a kid, but I follow instructions – of course I do. I’ve come all this way, haven’t I?

I pick out a pineapple and a melon, thinking of my fellow earthlings as I do, knowing that they’ll have to peel these before they eat them and won’t digest too many of my microbes. Come to think of it, I should probably buy them after the show, have fruit salad for dinner.

I’m supposed to be feeling, considering texture and heft, but all I’m feeling is a bit of a fool. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or maybe it’s that tune that’s softly playing behind the guy’s voice – what is it? I know it from somewhere – maybe it’s because I suddenly feel so bloody far away, but I don’t really want to be here.

I know where this is leading, I think. I’ve seen this before. It’s just like Psychomart, a show I reviewed in London seven or eight years ago. Back then it was cool – defamiliarising the familiar, making us ‘really see’ our urban surroundings and the other people in them; elevating our mundane existence – but we’ve all been there and done that and de-elevated again. Could Metamuse, the group who made me feel invisible hands touching me, who made me rip open my soul in a dark room, really have dragged me across the world for this?

Now I’m told to drive to the cheese and dairy aisle. I put the pineapple and melon in my trolley and concentrate on acting normal as I scan the signs along the aisles.

Fuck. The song that’s playing from the supermarket’s ceiling is the song I had my first-ever slow dance to. It was our primary-school farewell dance – five o’clock on a Friday afternoon. We were damp still from the games we’d played in the afternoon – apple-bobbing and water-balloon races – and I was self-conscious about whether anyone could see through my T-shirt and I’d gone to the girls’ changing room to spray on even more of my cheap deodorant. I was too tall, even then – about a foot taller than Gabriel, but he was a kind boy, and I hugged him to my chest through that song and forgot.