My dreams turn grotesque. I dream of a fetus, wrapped in a wet translucent caul, attached to my calf. I dream of eating a bag of gummy worms, before realising they are crawling with live maggots. I dream I have covid-19, and my bed is sopping with blood.

TBH, social - physical, really - distancing feels like my pre-pandemic life. Aside, of course, from the pub hours. I miss that, quiet chats with punters about normal things: their day, holidays, dinner. I miss cafes, libraries, hugs from friends encountered on streets, going to the shop without feeling dread. It feels like the stuff we took for granted, its comforting banality, is now only a pleasant dream.

My anxiety about the climate crisis isn't so pressing anymore. I feel serene in the face of everything. I've been well-prepared, I think, by years of precarity, dystopian novels, and studies of past conflicts. Catastrophe has been a familiar presence in my life, and this pandemic presents nothing new in terms of psychological stress.

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