Tottenham High Road is alight with glitter. Glinting polka-dots on mesh; silver lame pulled across bodies; sequins draped from hip to tarmac; spike heels and knee-high boots; orange suits and denim chaps, snakeskin and bumbags and stetsons with tassels, bought from a haberdashers’ and glued on in devotion. A beautiful boy walks past me, biceps in boucle, freckles from cheekbone to cheekbone. This isn’t my part of town; I have nearly always been a South Londoner. I have only ever been here on match days, when the street chugs with sullen, silent men in big coats beneath the fry of onions. Tonight it is a catwalk. A man walks against the flow of people, holding his phone aloft, his astonishment loud enough to hear: “oh, my god.”

The thing is, I’ve been going to pop concerts for years. I have worn myself a little ritual of getting home from work and eating something carby, making sure my phone is charged and thinking about what layers to best stash under the folding plastic seat of an arena. I establish when the set begins and arrive a few minutes before it, perhaps adding extra if it was an artist that would inspire long queues for the ladies. I would stand there and write on my phone, taking in the excited pre-teens and the women released from their caring duties. And then I would leave as the confetti canons were brought out, walking briskly out of the exit to escape the throng. Efficient, punctual, mean.

But the Renaissance World Tour was not that. I claimed a ticket - one among the hundreds of thousands who pushed Beyoncé to stage another night, and then another, and another at the Tottenham stadium - while nine months pregnant. It felt rash and optimistic, a promise and a challenge to my future self to leave a newborn at home. It didn’t feel entirely real. I’d been releasing books and growing a baby; I’d not listened to Renaissance as much as I’d have liked. Instead of attending as a voyeur or a critic, I entered the stadium as a small miracle. If before I held a sense of distant superiority from the fans, now I mostly felt lucky to be at their party.

The marathon of getting to the venue begins at the Tube. We file out of Seven Sisters’ station and along the road, we stand in line for the train. I give up and retrace my steps, take the Victoria Line further north and walk instead. I suppose I have dressed up too. Boots with reflective laces, an anorak with a paperback in the pocket, a tight tulle dress printed with angels painted in the 16th century. A different kind of Renaissance. These underground corridors are thick with perfume. I put some on before I left the baby and when I kissed him goodbye I wondered if he could still smell the milk on my skin.

She performs for three hours and I’m reminded of what a star is, hyperreal in its perfection. We dance and sing and I realise I’m grinning, have been for a while. I think about the life I had before the baby and the life I’m living after him and whether the two can collide. I stand in the queue for the bar and watch videos of him waking up.

Tottenham has dedicated itself to Beyoncé for the week. Her music blasts out of cars, her face appears, grainy, on the homemade T-shirts of the staff in McDonalds. There has been a wedding nearby and the guests are milling around, eating fries and Big Macs. The bride stands by the door beneath the golden arches, glowing against the dark. It is a fair distance to the station and I overtake people, stuffing soft and salty fries onto my tongue. The escalator bobs with stetsons and chatter. I feel alive, alive, alive and I feel alone, alone, alone.