With the case of San Pellegrino cradled against my chest like an extremely heavy newborn baby, I stepped backwards, lowering my foot by fractions of an inch until I felt solid ground beneath me. It wasn’t much, but I’d actually accomplished something and, with a hangover like mine, I couldn’t have been more pleased if I’d invented a time machine and gone back in time and stopped myself from spending fourteen English pounds on a ticket to see Cats at the cinema.

I nudged the box of cat food out of the way with my foot, so that no one would trip over it and smash face first into a fridge full of Diet Coke, then stuck my tongue out at the cat, who immediately began cleaning his bum. Ecstatic at the thought of returning to The Songbird and presenting Juliette with twelve cans of her precious pop, I turned to march back to the till, victorious.

Of course, it had all been too easy.

The very moment I let down my guard, a tall human-shaped blur came tearing around the shelves and smacked straight into me, sending me flying backwards into the fridge.

The case of San Pellegrino fell to the floor and bounced off my foot. I yelled out in surprise and then pain as several cans popped open on impact, spraying me with a sticky shower of orange fizz. With a shriek far too big for its body, the tiny black cat leaped into the air and went straight for my attacker. The man’s arms windmilled at the shelves as the cat darted away and disappeared out of harm’s way.

‘Watch out!’ I cried, alarmed as he staggered backwards, towards the decrepit wooden shelves.

But he did not watch out.

Instead, he skidded in a pool of San Pellegrino, arms still grabbing at the air, and his entire body rolled backwards into a unit that was stacked right up to the ceiling. I watched in horror as the first set of shelves hit the second set of shelves, and the second set of shelves hit the third set of shelves, all of them falling like dominoes. The man hit the floor with a loud crack as dozens of bags of crisps sailed high into the air and landed on top of him, burying him in deep-fried potato goodness.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked, dropping to my knees and digging through the bags of crisps, searching for a hand, a face, anything to confirm he was still with us.

‘Ungh,’ he replied in a deep voice.

‘Oh, thank god, you’re not dead,’ I breathed out, so relieved. Death by crisp and cat was no way to go, and I didn’t trust myself to explain what had happened to the police without laughing.