I have nothing to report, apart from blessedly continuing, good physical health. I can’t vouch for my state of mind. In County Dublin we’re restricted to movement within 5 km of home, the weather is filthy, the shops are shut and online get-togethers are truly no substitute for real encounters.

I am working, nudging Dr Dan’s next book along at a snail’s pace and knocking out the occasional piece of journalism, but all work and no play would make Laurie a very dull girl indeed so, like a bright-eyed playgroup leader, I try to have a range of other activities to offer myself. Reading some of those yellowing, unread books, a bit of knitting (last week I mastered basic cable stitch), an hour of drawing. Days of the week are barely distinguishable. Tuesday is craft group, Sunday is church, both on Zoom. That’s about all.

I’m aware of friends and children and grandchildren who are struggling, and I sense tension between those who think normal life has gone forever and those who think we should just take our chances and get on with it.

I eat strange, fridge-clearing combos  –  the bacon and marmalade sandwich worked quite well. My voice grows croaky through lack of use. I reconsider my wardrobe. Since I’m unlikely ever again to go to a party or a first night, I reckon I might as well wear my sequins to work. Is this how the descent into dottiness begins?

It occurs to me that my mailing list subscribers are due a little something. I wonder who they’d like to hear from? I’m thinking, maybe Buzz Wexler or Lubka, or even both. But, suggestions on a postcard, please.

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