Early this morning I have a dream where some weird infection is spreading over the world, and everyone has been told that they can only socialise with the people they live with. Just after waking, in that no-mans-land of semi-consciousness where anything can be anything, I am utterly and comically baffled by this prospect, relieved to be swiftly coming back into reality from my subconscious.
Until I realise that it is all true.
It turns out that, literally a month into my isolation and approaching the fourth week of the UK lock down, the effects of this terrible virus have just dawned on me.
I wake up properly and read that the government has admitted that PPE has almost run out. A fashion designer friend of mine has been sewing beautifully crafted scrub caps for the nurses of Bristol. I have a message from another friend who is an occupational therapist, worried that her work will start sending her unprotected into the homes of the vulnerable.
It’s suddenly all real to me.
After thirty evenings of sitting down at my desk or on the end of my bed, eking out anecdotes from these quiet, dreamlike days, it’s time for a break. Time, more to the point, to come to terms with with what has already happened, and what, no doubt, will be. Because as important as it is to share, it’s sometimes equally important not to.