At the start of Friday evening, anything seemed possible. Our Oyster cards were charged, we had hours to kill, we had thirst to quench and hunger to satisfy. Then we nodded off on the sofa and woke up just as it was getting dark – the ultimate disorientator. Maybe only second in line to playing blind man’s buff while pissed up on Drambuie on an Antarctic ice shelf.

Anyway, that was the evening ruined, so we went out to get a take away curry, a bit like Paul Weller did in the 1980 hit “Down In The Tube Station At Midnight”, except we didn’t have to get on the tube, and we didn’t end up getting assaulted by a group of right-wing skinhead thugs, which was nice. But on the way home we passed a black cab that had pulled up at the kerb. Out of the cab emerged a pushchair, which landed at a dangerous angle to the pavement, followed by a woman in a smart green coat, who crouched down and started rummaging through her bag for her purse. She couldn’t find it. She looked upset. Actually, she didn’t just look upset, she looked phenomenally pissed. She eventually found her money, and stood up to hand it to the driver, who, by this time, had noticed that we were watching, and made a tilting gesture with his hand to indicate that yes, indeed, she had been slugging back the sauce. At this point one wheel of the pushchair fell into the road. Jenny said something like “jesus, there’s a f*cking baby in there.” She rushed over to assist the woman, who was by now wrapped around a nearby lamp post and having difficulty standing.

“Can I help you?” Jenny asked the woman. “Euughghh, er, yeah, oh, yes, please,” she said. Jenny levered the pushchair and baby out of the gutter and waited for the woman to orientate herself. “Do you live near here?” Jenny asked. “Eugghh, ugh, yes, oh, just round the corner, there,” she said, eyes rolling wildly. Jenny took control of the pushchair and we started walking down Tooting High Street. “I’m so drunk,” said the woman. “I only had two, honest, and look at me.” She grabbed hold of my arm, and we started to cross the road. This mental challenge proved too much for the woman, and she started blubbing her eyes out. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said, clutching her face with her free hand. “Oh, my poor baby.” “What’s your name?” I asked her. “Yvonne,” she wailed. And your baby? “It’s Sarah,” she said, “oh, oh I’m so embarrassed.” She lurched to her left. We steadied her, and reassured her not to worry, that it was perfecly OK to go out and get shitfaced with your 6-month old child, and we’d get her home in a jiffy. “Oh, thank you,” she slurred. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed,” she wailed. “Have you been to a party?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, with big, sad, eyes. “Was it a birthday party?” I asked. “Yes, it was,” she said, with even bigger, sadder eyes. “Don’t worry,” I said, unconvincingly, “this is all perfectly normal.”

When we reached her road, Yvonne was suddenly overcome with the realisation that she was walking down a dark street and a complete stranger was in charge of her offspring. “Can I push the buggy?” she said. We agreed that yes, she could, although she would need to be kept under close supervision. Her bag was slung around her elbow, the neck of an open bottle of wine poking out of the top. We got to her door. Yvonne burst into tears, again. “You’re very kind,” she said, “I’m so embarrassed.” Don’t be, Yvonne, don’t be. “You’re very kind,” she said. “What’s your name?” “Jenny,” said Jenny. “Oh, thank you Jenny and Mr Jenny,” she said. We stood there, watching her trying to get her key in the lock. There was no way this was ever going to happen. Jenny took charge, and got the door open. “Oh, thank you,” blubbbed Yvonne, “I’m so embarrassed.” We said goodbye. “Bye,” she said, “thank you. I’m so embarrassed. Don’t worry, Sarah, don’t worry, Daddy will be home in a minute.”

The second of my series of Morality Plays will appear next Sunday morning, entitled “Oh bloody hell, I’ve gambled away my inheritance.”