The world tour. First stop: the supermarket.

My world tour begins at the supermarket, because major artists also need to eat and I have run out of milk. Before leaving, I check my headphones with the seriousness of someone checking their in-ear monitors onstage. Then I check the list: bread, milk, eggs. A short, accessible setlist with broad appeal.

The automatic doors open exactly as the chorus arrives. A perfect entrance. I slow down half a step, lift my chin and let the music do its job. The man behind me asks whether I can move. Audiences always have opinions about artistic direction.

The cart has launched a solo career

One wheel has its own ambitions. When I attempt an elegant turn, it heads straight for the crisps. This detour was not planned. I follow it anyway: you should listen to your collaborators, particularly those with four wheels and no respect for the budget.

The most emotional part of the song arrives in the chilled aisle. I gaze past the yogurt as though remembering a relationship that changed me forever. Actually, I am looking for the one on offer. The expression is identical; the financial exposure is smaller.

I barely move my lips, convinced I am singing silently. Then a woman looks at me. I may have said something. I may also have dedicated the chorus to her. I pretend to study the ingredients of a cheese with an enthusiasm nobody has ever genuinely felt about bacterial cultures.

The vegetables need to establish their identity

At checkout, everything stops while someone works out whether those zucchini are organic or simply very confident. I wait with my headphones on and a patient expression. Internally, however, I am doing the encore. The cashier lifts the packet like a newly won award and searches for the label; I give the moment a crescendo that the vegetables have frankly not earned.

When it is my turn, I place the shopping on the belt in rhythm. Bread on beat one, yogurt on beat two, and eggs reminding me that not every member of the cast has agreed to choreography. The detergent falls sideways with the dramatic weight of a guest determined to steal the evening.

“Do you have a loyalty card?” the cashier asks. I remove a headphone as though interrupted during an important announcement. The card is somewhere in my bag, alongside a receipt old enough to claim a pension. As I search, the song keeps going. My entrance was magnificent. The exit requires an archaeological expedition.

The audience wants milk. I want a finale.

I leave with a candle, a plant and something to organise a drawer I have not organised. Beside the car, I check the bags. No milk. I have performed an entire supermarket concert and forgotten the only reason I bought a ticket.

I go back inside. This time I do not slow down at the doors. Even prestigious tours sometimes add a second date for logistical reasons.

Choose the soundtrack from my songs, with previews you can play here. The next stop is the shower concert: excellent acoustics, uncooperative flooring. For wind in your hair and an audience that judges without barking, try the treadmill concert. All shows are sold out. Not because attendance is huge: because there is only so much room.