The assistant doesn’t look up from the counter, but I’m getting used to this now. I walk around the edge of the shop, trailing a hand across the hanging garments, stopping occasionally to push the hangers back and pull something out for a better look. I choose a simple cotton dress, navy blue with an anchor pattern, which at home I would laugh at, but somehow seems fitting here. I wander into the centre of the store, where a variety of shoes are on display – none of them particularly nice, but neither are they particularly awful. I lift up a tan ankle boot, checking for the price on the sole. It just happens to be my size, and the other one is there, too – not a common occurrence in any decent shop, in case you pilfer them.

I genuinely hadn’t come in here to steal anything, but the assistant hasn’t even looked up yet, never mind greeted me, and a small ball of annoyance bounces up my gullet, a burning lump in my throat. I’m sick of being ignored. Of being sneered at. I could just pay for the dress and the boots and be on my way, but what’s the point? I’d be far better keeping my dwindling cash reserves for other things.

I take a breath, then ask, loudly, ‘Do you have this dress in a medium?’

She looks up, then looks me up and down. She mutters something in Russian, then disappears through the back. I don’t think about it any longer. Don’t consider that she might have a big, burly boyfriend waiting through there, ready to pounce. I quickly roll the boots inside the dress and stuff it under my arm like a rugby ball, then I hastily leave the shop. My heart starts pounding as I skip down the few steps, and then I start to run.

Still no idea where I am, I run across the street and around the corner, and then I just keep running, faster than I’ve run for a very long time. I didn’t even glance back before the shop was out of sight. I have no idea if she is currently calling the police, or if she has even returned from the back of the shop, but I don’t care. My lungs burn, my thighs burn, and I just pump my legs harder, but only one arm – so I don’t drop my illicit wares. Eventually, when I can’t run any further, I stop, letting the clothes fall to the ground. I lean forwards, panting hard, trying to catch a breath – and then I start laughing. I stand, glancing behind me, but no one is there. No one has followed. I laugh until my chest feels like it might burst, until tears are running down my face.