Last week Pix wowed you with his tales of ordering lemons on the Internet. This week, the story reaches its dramatic conclusion, as a mis-click lands him with more ginger than he has ever seen in his life.

Midnight on a Tuesday. Nobody awake except drunkards, burglars and insomniacs. Nobody, that is, except me and the Tesco delivery man.

The clock was still a little shy of the strike of 12, but already I was questioning whether it was worth receiving shopping in the middle of the night for the sake of a £1.75 saving. Even if you're a natural night owl, the second you know you're not allowed to go to sleep, sleeping becomes all you want to do. I found myself plunged into an irritating, drowsy limbo, unable to do anything meaningful except fritter away the minutes and wait for the knock.

What can you even buy for £1.75 these days? A coffee? Some chips? Oh yes, it looks appealing when you're staring at an on-screen timetable and Tuesday night's four days away. Everything's simpler when it's in the future. But after an hour and a half of anticipation, all traces of goodwill had evaporated. Essentially, I was being paid two pence a minute to procrastinate. I should talk to my union.

Knock knock! Finally. I opened the door, exchanged niceties and began ferrying trays to and from the kitchen. When I was done, the Tesco man informed me they didn't have the cereal I wanted, which was fine because they sell it at the Co-op down the road. That's where normal people buy their cereal. I signed on the dotted line, wondered whether you're supposed to tip, decided against it because I'm British, then waved him off to wake the neighbours up with his van.

Surprises awaited in the kitchen. There's a lot to be said for ordering boxes and cans on the internet, as your average pack of Calgon doesn't tend to vary too much from the next. Fresh food is a different matter. Cox's apples like small cricket balls, carrots with a hint of balsa wood and a pair of mangoes requiring three weeks on the roof before they could be opened with human tools. I could barely be bothered to eat them by the time they had ripened, having been staring at them resentfully for the best part of a month.

The best surprise lay at the bottom of one of the bags. Due to a website mis-click I'd inadvertently ordered half a kilo of fresh ginger, a rogue zero having multiplied my desired 50g piece by a factor of 10. 500g is probably enough ginger to kill a man. It's hard enough getting through one bit before it turns into a withered lump, and now I had the knobbly equivalent of a pack of potatoes sprawling all over my counter.

What on earth did they think I was going to do with it, back at the packing plant?

Internet grocery shopping: brilliant in theory, hazardous in practice. Luckily the Co-op's just down the road.

Next week, Pixelsmith thrillingly cleans his oven.

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