After all of the penny-pinching at least he knows what he has: one pocket-warmed tenner that has seen better days. He studies his list, not wanting to forget something and have to trek all the way back here again. Then, satisfied, he grips onto the trolley and off he goes. He has, as usual, chosen a wonky-wheeled affair that will fight him all the way, as if privy to his plans.

Bread first. Man cannot live on bread alone, he remembers that, but it sure helps.

One white loaf, 28 pence gone.

Baked beans next. Good for the heart. Is that true he wonders, or is it just there for the rhyme?

Four cans. 80 pence.

Cornflakes (66 pence) come next and, of course, 33 pence for a pint of milk. The perfect way to turn a crisp morning soggy.

24 pence buys ten fish fingers to sit alongside 44 pence worth of chips. That reminds him of Saturday afternoons as a child sitting up for tea after the football in a kitchen smelling of beer, fags and newspaper print, so he buys a paper too (40 pence).

Almost done.

Chicken soup: a magical cure for any ailment. Surely that’s a bargain at 23 pence? It had worked when he was a kid. He chews thoughtfully on scar-laced lips, contemplating a furred tongue in silence. One problem easily solved: toothpaste (21 pence) keeps you feeling minty-fresh.

Now for a treat. He has had a milky bar every Saturday since he can remember: 27 pence well spent. Finally, the purchase that has necessitated this trip out into the cold. Six pounds and twenty three pence buys him a 70cl bottle of vodka. What was it Pink Floyd sang?

‘Comfortably numb’ – that’ll just about cover it.

He fights the trolley to the till and empties it until its metal frame is as hollow as his belly. A bright-eyed blond chucks his goods down the conveyor belt, barely looking up, not bothering to ask whether he would like help packing.

“That’ll be £10.11 … Sir."

Shit. He’s overspent again. He shrugs, hands the toothpaste back to her along with the careworn tenner and lumbers off with ten pence to keep him company.