The treadmill concert. Beyoncé, but out of breath.

A treadmill facing a fan is a combination that raises unreasonable expectations. I switch on the air: roughly twenty centimetres of bob and seven centimetres of fringe move with professional competence. I have done nothing yet, but my hair is already in the video. Encouraging to have one part of my body that trained for this.

The start is calm. I walk, adjust my headphones and look like someone moving through an important chapter of her life. Technically, I am still facing the same piece of furniture, but the music does not need every detail.

The fan is the only one who can handle the tour

During the first chorus, I feel like Beyoncé. During the second, I feel like Beyoncé facing an organisational problem. My mind wants a runway, my legs want to know where we are going, and the belt keeps moving with the indifference of somebody paid by the hour.

I add character with an intense look and a shoulder movement. The shoulder begins beautifully. My foot remembers we are on a machine and has not signed a dance contract. I put my hands back where they belong and restrict the repertoire to facial expressions. I discussed this approach during the shower stop. Eyebrows are an underrated resource.

The fan keeps going. It never misses a cue, never runs out of breath and needs no recovery time. If anyone asks who actually worked during this show, I will have to point at an appliance.

The neighbour has taken a front-row seat

I look towards the window and see my neighbour standing on the other side. I do not know how long she has been watching. Perhaps she caught only the chorus. Perhaps she now knows more about my posture than I do.

For a moment, I try to make everything normal. I wave as though windblown singing while walking without getting anywhere is a perfectly straightforward routine. She waves back with the expression of somebody who has just found a dinner-table story. I close the stage curtain. In this case, it is an actual curtain.

The high note becomes a wheeze

Until now, I had mistaken wind in my hair for physical stamina. Then a long note arrives and my body produces a sound like an accordion abandoned beneath a sofa. The high note wanted to climb. My breath took the exit.

The treadmill stops. So do I. Asthma, when it shows up, does not consult the setlist, and Ventolin makes an entrance that deserves its name on the poster. The tour is suspended. I stand there with hair still blowing because the fan has apparently not received the announcement. I look like the lead in a music video whose lead has requested a very long break.

The song continues in my headphones with a voice that has no respect for what I am going through. I take one earbud out. This is not the time for performance comparisons.

Oliver does not applaud. Oliver assesses.

Oliver approaches the treadmill and stops at a sensible-dog distance. He looks at me, looks at the belt and looks back at me. A brief sequence containing an entire review. He does not bark: he refuses to imply that his contribution is part of the show.

I attempt a smile. He tilts his head with the air of someone remembering when the fan had a normal purpose. Then he lies down and sighs. He judges with the confidence of somebody who only needs to enter a room to be loved. No choreography, no windswept fringe. His merchandise is a tennis ball.

The show closes with me stationary, the fan still committed and Oliver already bored. Return to the supermarket concert, read the shower concert or choose one of my songs. I am listening to the next one sitting down. The world tour can wait. My dignity has apparently checked out already.