The rain comes out of nowhere. If she had been paying attention, Nat would have noticed the slow circling of grey carrion clouds over the street, but she is not. Her hands are cold and thrust deep into the pockets of her second hand jacket and her eyes scour the floor avoiding the dog shit and the eyes of the other pedestrians.

She’s trying to pretend she is somewhere else altogether, like when she was little. Back then her teachers had said she was imaginative and creative. Bright. People don’t say that about her anymore.

If she doesn’t look up from the ground, perhaps it is a sunny, brisk day.

If she doesn’t look down at her clothes perhaps she is wearing stylish, warm boots and a red coat that makes people stare at her, but in a good way, not like they expect her to steal something.

If she doesn’t look at the broken glass and ruined shop fronts, perhaps she is wandering down cobbled streets in Paris, carrying a basket of fresh bread and tulips instead of a stained tote bag of tinned tomatoes from the food bank.

The first icy drops of rain on the back of her neck drag her away from Paris and her red coat, back into her denim jacket and scuffed trainers. Nat darts into the Salvation Army shop.

The lady at the till smiles, then dips back into her book. Nat wanders around. It’s the usual assortment of Primark dresses, but then she sees it, rolled up and propped against a stack of board games. A yoga mat. Nat runs her fingers across the top of it, remembering how she used to be the sort of person who did yoga.

The sticker says 99p. In Nat’s pocket is the last of the week’s money. A few pound coins to get her through the next three days, but something forgotten and reckless surges up in her chest and when the rain stops, Nat is leaving with the mat tucked under her arm.

Nat is thinking about where she might put the mat and if she can remember her sun salutations, when she sees Jan across the road, still wearing her food bank volunteer t-shirt, so everyone knows how kind she is. She looks pointedly at the yoga mat and raises her eyebrows. Ten minutes ago she had doled out tinned tomatoes to Nat and here Nat is buying herself treats! She feels a hot curdle of shame in her belly. She hurries past, eyes down.

Nat climbs the stairs to her flat. It smells of bleach and cigarettes but as she reaches her own door Ruth next door is coming out of hers. Nat tries to hide the mat behind her, but Ruth notices and grins.

“I’ve got one of those in the wardrobe and a Davina McCall DVD somewhere. If you’re getting into it, maybe I’ll dig mine out. We can have a go together!”

Nat smiles. They agree that Ruth will call around later that evening. She has no idea how they’ll fit, but, somehow it doesn’t matter. Nat unrolls the mat on the laminate floor and looks down at it. Suddenly she can remember exactly how it feels to be the sort of person who does yoga.