To Pets At Home to buy a huge bag of charcoal biscuits in a desperate, yet doomed, attempt to control the gas emissions from our pair of canines.
I have chosen badly, for my visit coincides with the final week of the school holidays, and the place is rammed with small hyperactive children and their stressed-out mothers, wondering why this summer of Hell is never-ending.
I arrive at the tills to find one tiny tearaway hammering at the Perspex screen separating the rabbits from dozens of hyperactive six-year-olds, and his mother trying to drag him away while simultaneously trying to buy cat food an a fish tank.
"Stop it, Oscar," she says, in a voice that says "I'm so, so, so tired, please go back to school so I may sleep forever."
A minor miracle occurs, and Oscar stops bothering the bunnies and instead turns to me.
"I've got a rabbit, you know," he says.
Scared that any reply might render me some sort of kiddie-fiddler, I do my best to ignore him. But then Oscar lands the hammer blow.
"He's called Nipples."
"BWA HA HA HA HARRRGH!" I said, which I believe is the only acceptable response in the circumstances.
"Oscar!" Mum says, "What have I told you about strange men?"
I could not let this dreadful slur stand.
"Strange? He's the one being strange, lady."
She pays for her purchases, gathers her brood, and leaves.
"Help me. I'm so tired."