Anyway, whether she is there or not is of no consequence to me right now. She might be the big-shot doctor with her own YouTube channel, but hey, there’s that photo of me in the net tutu and bunny ears floating about in the ether, and at least that showed courage, and a willingness to have a go when the mums’ race probably ranks as the low point in my ‘sporting calendar’. And I’d like to see her haring across the field, amidst the pack of ferociously competitive women, some of whom take the event so seriously that training commences six months in advance.

That’s my epitaph, I decide, as I move away from the cheese shop and wander unsteadily down the street: She had a bloody go. She worked on and on without making a fuss. What a thrilling specimen I’ve become in my fifties: unexpectedly single, with a job that bores me rigid – and was only meant to be a stopgap until I found a theatre company that could utilise my talents. Here I am, five years later, tottering drunkenly with a carrier bag with the thing in it; the thing I have transported across Glasgow in a taxi for the purpose of … what exactly? To do something mad. To show him I’m still angry about his reaction to my Girl Friday rejection, and that it’ll take more than him scrabbling about in the attic for us to become ‘friends’ (or whatever arrangement he hopes to arrive at, coming round with his hangdog face).

That is, if he even realises it was me who did this tonight. He might not. He might think it’s just a random nut-job, which, actually, would be preferable: to put the fear of God into him that he has a crazy, omelette-depositing stalker! Because that’s what’s in my carrier bag: a four-egg omelette devoid of cheese, seasoning or any flavour at all; I wasn’t prepared to waste a speck of black pepper on that fuckwit. But I didn’t begrudge the eggs. If my omelettes are so bloody great – and he was at pains to praise them – then see how he likes this one, slapped on his precious car!

I scan the street for it. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might not be parked conveniently outside his flat. It takes a few minutes’ strolling to find the black BMW, which Andy adores, and keeps as clean and shiny as a snooker ball (pigeon shit is regarded as a personal affront, as if the bird had specifically targeted his bonnet out of spite). Maybe that’s the real reason why I’m doing this – to violate his precious motor – or maybe it’s the cheap Pinot Grigio’s fault.