I was cross at being left in a supermarket car park like a sack of rubbish, a trolley with a wonky wheel or the unwanted offspring of one of the Bendaton Six Form girls. I cursed Bignell’s name under my breath and wished, just for once, he’d display some of the rigid sensibleness of his namesake. There were only two options open to me – I could either freeze in the forecourt or I could go inside where it would no doubt be both warm and unpleasant. I opted for the latter.

"Can I interest you in a Club Card?" asked a smiling girl whose eyes betrayed the real time of morning our conversation was taking place at. Her left held me in a tantalising gaze while her right looked to be trying to escape to a head that would treat it rather better.

"Yes" I said, it almost becoming a habit so soon into the wager. She outlined the benefits of the scheme and I must say it did sound rather good.

"And it is of course absolutely free" she concluded by adding.

"Free?" I said, my ears pricked. "But that is absurd. Everyone knows that you cannot undercut Bargainsave – they are the cheapest shopping chain in the first or second worlds and yet their loyalty card scheme – of which I am a member" I showed her my neatly typed membership card, "- costs forty nine pence per person per year.

"Well ours is of course absolutely free" she repeated.

"Then allow me to sign up straight away" I said and I beamed at her. I always make a point of being friendly to people who provide me with excellent value for money, even if they are worthless scum who hold jobs that could be done by robots, monkeys or workers shipped in from foreign parts. She backed away during my smile – obviously she had another appointment to get to – and took back her clip board gingerly.

"It’s quite all right, my dear" I said warmly, "I understand that you are now holding a genuine Dennis Brent autograph but such reverence is unnecessary."

At this point I made a small tactical error – I used a long word at an ungodly hour to a prole who was feeling nervous.

"There is no need to genuflect" I said reassuringly. She screamed and ran off towards the lavatories. Luckily she kept hold of my completed application form so I could look forward to all those "Club Card" benefits coming my way.

I soon realised that the main problem with going to a supermarket at four o’clock in the morning is that the people there tend on the whole to be the sort of people who one would expect to go to a supermarket at four o’clock in the morning. Since I hadn’t any idea what I was going to do about getting home I decided to have a thoughtful wander around the store while I assembled my mental bearings.

"Can I help you?" asked an assistant who mistook my thoughtful pose for someone who was starring closely at the intimate moisturisers.

"Ah… n... yes… I…" I flapped as she brought me round from my thoughtful pose and back into the real world. My eye slipped and I caught a glimpse of her chest. Her name badge said ‘Sarah’. I looked up and saw a warm, friendly, and quite possibly familiar smile.

"Are you Sarah Sutton?" I asked. She blushed a florid pink and it was her turn to mutter and flap.

"No" she said quickly. "My name is Sarah… um…. Mutton".

"Ah" I said. "Accept my apologies – you look rather like a second rate actress who was briefly in a fascinating television programme. I expect you’d get it all the time if she was in any sense even vaguely remembered by the public."

For some reason my explanation made Miss Mutton look rather downcast. I can’t think why unless she was suffering from that ‘hormones’ disease that women suffer from. Perhaps the chemicals which helped ensure she remained a secondary citizen were giving her an uncomfortable dose of empathy with Sarah Sutton. I have no idea. I decided, out of kindness, to divert her attention.

"Hypothetically speaking, which of these intimate moisturisers would you recommend for a gentleman prone to rectal cracking?"

Miss Mutton was more helpful in advising me about the range of products on sale in store than she was lucid in giving her advice. It was almost as if she was laughing, crying and mumbling at the same time. As if I amused her, upset her and should under no circumstances be allowed to recognise her. Which was nonsense of course as I rarely upset people, never amuse them and I already knew everything there was to know about her – she was called Sarah Mutton and she worked in Shopco. How much more could there be in her life? I left her to her duties and walked deeper into the neon lit village which passed itself off as a shop.