I didn’t go for a second walk today. Instead I napped, waking up ragged and surly, my mouth turned down. Last night I had been disturbed by an intense, radiating pressure on my sternum, pinning me to the bed, like the demon astride that poor woman in Fuseli’s painting The Nightmare. It wouldn’t go away for what felt like hours. I bore it quietly, knowing it would go away, like it did when I had a similar attack sometime at the end of August last year, after engaging with a friend in a demoralising conversation about the climate crisis. When it passed, I slipped into a restless dream about having to host everyone I’ve ever known in one house, even as the pandemic raged on.




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