‘Come on, Isaac,’ he tries again. ‘Don’t be shy. Friendly bunch, we are.’

Finally a man makes his way across the room, earning himself a smatter of applause for what’s perceived to be his bravery. He briefly engages in conversation with the karaoke compère, then walks off again.

‘OK then. Turns out Isaac’s a little worse for wear.’ The compère chuckles through the mic, triggering a collective ‘boo’ from the punters. ‘Change of plan. Let’s have… Alex.’

I blanch. Surely not yet. I haven’t yet warmed up to the idea of singing in almost full sobriety.

‘It’s you,’ Sasha squeals.

‘Hang on. It might not be me.’ This is blind optimism on my part. ‘It could be another Alex – a guy or a woman.’

‘That’s true.’

We sit back and wait for someone else to make their way to the mic, but no one appears.

‘Not again.’ The karaoke compère sounds perplexed. ‘I’ll try once more. Alex – the young lady who just requested the Killers – up you come.’

‘Shit, that is me.’ I feel an instant sense of panic.

‘Oh, I love it when you do that song. Go, quick. Before you miss your turn.’

I hesitate a moment longer, then autopilot kicks in, overriding my instinct to sink into my seat and pull an Isaac. I get up and cross the room. As I do, the karaoke compère spots me and expresses his relief publicly.

‘So great you can join us, Alex. Give her a show of appreciation, everyone.’

The bar erupts into raucous applause, making me want to walk straight past the makeshift stage and out the main door. Of course, I don’t. Because as much as I’ve been called too soon and I haven’t had enough to drink to settle my rather overexcitable nerves, I still really want to sing. It’s been so long. Back in Glasgow, karaoke was a regular thing. Dom was never a fan, but I didn’t need him to be. A private karaoke room was a staple activity on a work night out or for a leaving do, and there were regular trips with Sasha to our old local. A few G&Ts and they’d have to pry the mic out of my hands.

I’m just feet away from the mic handover when my thigh unexpectedly and violently collides with the corner of a table I’m passing. A white hot, shooting pain surges through my leg, causing me to yelp out loud, clutching my injured limb. There’s a collective ‘oooh’ from the punters around me as they feel my pain – both physically and psychologically. Face burning, leg throbbing, I plaster on a brave face and continue on towards the mic.

‘You all right, bab?’ The karaoke compère looks genuinely concerned. ‘That was quite a knock.’

‘I’m OK.’ I force a smile.

‘Still want to sing?’

‘Don’t think this lot can be let down a second time.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ He gives me an encouraging nod and speaks into the mic. ‘All right, everyone. Think Alex needs some extra support after that bash. Might have had one too many as well, but at least she’s made it up here.’