The cold beer touched me like a benediction, immediately banishing the vileness and dryness that had gathered in my mouth. But with its spreading, quenching coolth came fear. I had not checked the other cubicles when I came in. There were three. I had rushed to the end one, furthest from the door, considering it most discreet. But I had not checked the others to see if they were occupied.

I held still, listening for any sounds of occupation from the neighbouring cubicle – a sniff, a breath, a scuff of shoes on tile. Nothing came. The partitions had wide gaps at the top and bottom – I dipped down to see if I could see feet. Nothing. Safe, I was fairly sure. Fairly.

Continue. I poured the beer into the bottle, where it gurgled and frothed but behaved itself. Then I added the contents of one of the miniatures, before taking out a second can. This time I was more careful. I pulled back the tab with care. The beer began to push and spit through the small fracture.

The toilet door opened, and someone walked in.

The beer was still hissing and hawking, sounds that seemed deafeningly loud in the confined space. White spume was filling the lipped area on top of the can.

They paused, whoever it was who had come in. Were they checking themselves in the mirror, opening their fly, or pondering over the strange noises coming from the far cubicle? It was, at least, a plumbing kind of sound, the sound of a spluttering tap or a limescaled cistern trying to refill itself.

But the beer would spill if I did nothing. I put my lips to the circular white puddle that had formed on top of the can and tried to quietly drain some of it away. The spitting changed pitch. I prayed that the newcomer stayed out of the cubicles, but feared it made little difference.

Urine splashed into the urinal. I used the cover of the noise to slurp more greedily at the beer. The pressure within the can had eased and it had stopped its tell-tale whispering, but I couldn’t pull back the tab all the way without an unmistakeable report in the echoing hush of the lav.

Whoever finished his business and washed his hands. Then he exited. Perhaps he had never known of my presence. I poured the second can into the bottle, but made the mistake of hurrying, so the foam rose up the neck and ran out over my knuckles. Sticky residue would be left everywhere – I would have to run the bottle under the tap. And I was not quite finished. There was a problem I had not anticipated: the empties, two cans and the plastic bottle of the miniature. I didn’t like the thought of carrying them around in my coat pocket – they might be lighter, but they would rattle more, and drip and smell.