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If there is any time that one should not be wondering the streets of London, it's during the post Christmas sales. Unless, of course you're a sadomasochistic shopaholic with aggressive tendencies and a burning desire for confrontation.

Weaving my way down New Bond Street on Boxing Day, I can almost hear the stampede of Jimmy Choo's on the pavement behind me as the latest flagship store opens its doors. Flattening myself against the cold, stone wall, which must have harboured many a frazzled shopper, I manage to emerge from the cloud of Gucci Rush unscathed, with my meagre purchase still intact.

Confidence restored, and it's time to hit the Top Shop, the five-floor haven of high street courtour for the funky and fashion conscious. I make it to the corner of Oxford and Regent Street, the huge TV panels of the Top Shop barely visible, when the crowd engulfs me. I swim in darkness for ten minutes, until between the bobbing heads and black trench coats, I get a peak at the skyline, and see that the tide has taken me way past my destination and I am now heading completely off course towards the bus lanes! Survival instincts kick in and I fling myself through the wooden doors of a previously unnoticed coffee shop.

Picking myself up, I take refuge at the bar. I must have looked worse than I felt, because the barman promptly placed a warming shot of something that looked suspiciously like sambucca, in front of me. I stared at him. It was 11.30 in the morning. Oh what the hell, I think, downing the drink. I clearly need it after my dice with death in the bus lane.

Immediately I feel a little better. The shopper anxiety has been replaced by a lovely tingly feeling that says, "Go forth and find bargains!"

Invigorated, I thank him and determinedly duck out of the door into the traffic. Ten minutes later and I haven't moved. I'm still stuck against the doors of Café La Dome. Damn it. This is not happening. Sighing, I gingerly step back into the coffee shop and sheepishly take up my spot at the bar.

He caught my eye. He smiled. And another deliciously evil shot of sambucca lands in front of me complete with coffee bean. Such service, I think to myself. Perhaps I should order a coffee, since two sambucca's on an empty stomach at 11am is never a good idea. Fabio seemed to agree with me, and magically whipped up a foam-filled cappuccino in record time. He really did have talent. Obviously it takes a certain amount of aptitude to work in a bar.

So impressed was I, that I engaged him in a lively conversation about how to make the perfect cappuccino. Fabio is Italian, as it turns out, and after discovering exactly where the steel wand has to be positioned to create the perfect amount of froth and exactly at what pressure the air should be eased into the milk, I was ready to attempt my first creation.

Gingerly I stepped behind the bar. In order to steady the nerves, we had another tiny shot of sambucca.

Feeling confident with Fabio beside me, instructing in his warm Italian accent, I begin the procedure. The noise is deafening close up and I had no idea how scalding hot milk can be if you get it on your hands. Clearly this is a job best left to a pro.

Alas, he was not letting me get away. Italian's are nothing, if not persistent. So I tried again. Better this time. "You need to get zee deep bubbles", he instructed, as I sprayed foam all over the Tirimisu on the counter. On my third and final attempt, I got it right. Perfecto! Fabio grinned that proud Italian grin and let me squeeze back to the other side of the bar, flushed and more than a little tipsy, but quite proud of myself.

We have a glass of wine to celebrate. Do you know that Tirimisu actually means 'pick me up' in Italian? Fascinating.