It knocks, banging away in my mind, the one question that has plagued me since yesterday, 'What if I fail?'

I lie awake in my sleeping bag, rigid with cold, silently screaming my concerns of failure. Darkness envelopes me. Other bodies shift. Murmur. Fart. Snore. I'm suffocating on a cushion of navy blue that is covering my face, protecting chapped lips.

Dawn arrives on a drizzle of icy needles. Tension ripples through my body as I scramble up and out of my uncomfortable bed and note a queue of hard nosed hopefuls behind and in front of me.

I'm longing for a pee and trying to distract myself from the thought of release, mentally hum, 'I'm Singing In The Rain,' But others, it seems, having no discretion, release their load of flasked tea and coffee like a stable of raddled horses.

Now a cry goes up and, like a Mexican wave, arms rise with echoing cries of, 'The doors are open!' And like a herd of wildebeest, we charge towards those doors, bodies pushing, hands shoving as we tumble, stumble, into the warmth of Debenhams.

Avoiding the lift and escalators, I charge up the stairs to the third floor, hearing others charging up behind me and, sprinting through to the accessories department, breathlessly I reach my goal.

There it is, the Gucci handbag I've yearned for. It hangs just a few feet away. Throwing myself forward, I make a grab for it but another makes a grab for it too. We tussle and, the woman, tall, built like a wrestler, yanks at a strap and, the bag unable to withstand such brutal force, rips asunder.

A stunned, silent moment passes. Then with a roar of bereavement, I kick out at my opponent, catching her on the shin, and she, in retaliation and with a bejewelled fist, punches me on the nose.