Sod her and Andy, the perfect ruddy doctor couple who have upended my life. I think I’m coping, and manage to convince myself that life is so much better without that ugly lampshade/temperamental fan heater – but it’s not really, is it? He lied to me for months. He patronised me by feigning interest in how to make omelettes. Bloody omelettes! I leap up from my chair, open the fridge so forcefully it makes the bottles wobble on their shelf on the door, and stare at the eggs.

Instantly, I have an idea of how to make myself feel better, and how to salvage this dismal night. I know it’s a mad one, and I’m also aware that I wouldn’t be even considering it if I wasn’t drunk. But what the hell – Izzy is away on her camp, and no one’s going to figure out that it’s me. It seemed to work for Penny; she admitted it was neither big nor clever but that egging some mystery person’s car made her feel a whole lot better about whatever it was she was angry about.

My heart is pounding excitedly now. Intending to put my own personal twist on it, I hope it’ll do the same thing for me.

Around midnight, drunk

Taking a taxi diminishes the drama somewhat, but there was no way I could drive, and I decided not to risk cycling either; I wasn’t ready to die for my cause. So a cab it was, with the driver asking, perkily, ‘Off on a night out?’

‘Sort of,’ I replied, conscious of my boozy breath.

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Just seeing who’s around,’ I said, which probably made it sound as if I were some lone woman, without friends or plans, who had decided to head out just before midnight in the quest for company or possibly even love.

‘Have fun, then,’ he said with a smirk as I paid him.

Now here I am, standing outside Andy’s flat, the cheesy whiff teasing my nostrils. A sign in the window, printed in elegant script, explains to customers that the shop has been specially fitted out with slate tiling and a foot-deep concrete floor, to mimic cave-like conditions and offer the perfect storage conditions for the 52 varieties on offer.

Although I love cheese normally, after too much vinegary wine and a sackload of crisps, the smell is making my stomach shift uneasily. I glance up at Andy’s flat; a light is on in what I presume is the living room. Is he home, I wonder? And is she there? Are they doing it now, or engaged in something altogether more humdrum, like washing up? Unlikely, I know, at midnight – but who knows how he rolls these days.