Supermarket Sweep

At long last, life is looking up: Budgens unveil plans for their 9th annual Drunken Trolley Dash, 2.54pm, Thursday.

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Having once wet myself on an ex-boyfriend's chair, it's probably fair to say that I'm no stranger when it comes to the odd drunken incident or two.

In fact (if my fingertips can stop blushing long enough to impart their shame), my 20s were a veritable world record attempt in filling phoneboxes with hive-breaking tales: starting with the more standard pulling of pigs and rolling out of unpaid taxis, going through a brief spate of shoplifting Hello* from the local garage, and ending with a merry dance involving some tramps and a lute player on the Embankment plus the odd broken bone or two.

Jesus. It's probably quite clear that I shouldn't drink.

Happily, since entering my third decade and unfolding the joys of motherhood, the ferocity of my drunken antics has been somewhat dampened. After all, it's pretty hard to get ratarsed and make guinea pig noises in restaurants when you're in every night weighed down with the responsibility of childcare. Plus, Lucy tends to get really annoyed with me when I try to tell strangers on the bus that I love them, so I've pretty much given up.

Or so I thought.

A couple of Thursdays ago however, I managed to get reasonably merry with Lucy's dad as we struggled through the very last showdown of our relationship. Finding the wine stocks dwindling, I ventured out to my local Budgens for another bottle. Swaying round the isles for a while, I also managed to get some other essentials, which for some reason I had neglected to ever purchase before: two large Battenburg cakes, some corn plasters, a sewing kit and a make your own fairy wings set.

Perhaps there was a hint in my other shopping that I was a little bit more drunk than I'd thought. Or perhaps the biggest hint came when I got to the till and loudly accused the lady in front of me of stealing my bread (which, cunningly I hadn't even managed to put in my basket, let alone drag to the till).

The poor accused woman, of course, looked at me as if I was slightly deranged. Sadly, the look turned to something more like pity when I demanded that she turn out all her shopping bags and clothing, and angrily slurred for the manager to come and sort the "shoplifting pickpocket" out.

How on earth I thought a pickpocket would get a huge loaf of bread down their trousers I do not know. Hell, I'm not even sure she was wearing trousers. But I was still muttering about it as they saw me to the door.

Needless to say, I haven't been back, which is slightly ridiculous given that it's the nearest shop to me. However, I am working on my fake moustache and french accent so that I can venture in there again: three weeks is a long time to go without bread, after all.

*Please accept my apologies for my choice of reading matter. Must have been extremely pissed that night.