I always suspected it was a question of ‘when’ not ‘if’.  And yes, in spite of two armfuls of Pfizer plus a booster, it got me in the end. Here I lurk, in strict quarantine, but supported and serviced by fellow residents. They make sure I don’t starve, though they know as well as I do, I could live off my body fat for quite some time.

I’m not exactly ill: a bit of a cough, a bit of a sniffle, but so depleted of energy it’s as though someone hoovered out all my mojo. Like liposuction, but for energy. Posting on this much-neglected website has required a huge effort and a stern talking to. ‘Get off the couch, Laurie. Post something. Post anything.’

Have I done any writing lately? No. But I have moved my notes for a possible new novel from the cardboard box of publisher’s rejects to my desk. They are there somewhere beneath the masks, the Kleenex, the Benylin and the Vick’s vapour rub. Tomorrow I might look at them. Heck, even Tolstoy had to start somewhere.

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