Last night we were having a couple of friends round for tea at the flat, and it was my turn to cook. As the day went on, extra people were added on and it turned out I was cooking for six in total. Fair enough, I thought. Josh suggested that I do a tradition Roquefort Files' pasta thing with bacon, asparagus and cream, and I concurred.

So far so good.

I couldn't find any asparagus in Tesco. Or in Scotmid. I was walking back to the flat wondering exactly what to do and I thought I'd try a couple of the small grocer-type shops on the way home. Handily enough, the first shop had some asparagus, so I got some cream to go with it. Just as the guy was switching it all, I realised I'd picked up sour cream instead of single cream. "Ah! Rats!" I said, and made a sort of I've-gotten-the-wrong-stuff gesture at the cream. "It's okay," he said, so I grabbed a couple of cartons of single cream and stuck them on the counter.

He then just added the single cream on to the shitload of sour cream he'd already switched. I sort of looked at him, trying to see if there was any glimmer of jest in his eyes. Nope. What the hell did he think I was cooking? I had something close to a litre of sour and single cream, and a haystack of asparagus. Was I planning to feed some romantic target enough aphrodisiac to render her speechless with lust and immobile with bloatedness, then drench her in a biblical flood of cream? I couldn't understand what the guy thought was going on, so I gave up, paid, and left.

Jesus. If anyone is planning to feed a Mexican five thousand, I've got enough sour cream to capsize the Titanic in my fridge. Let me know.