I looked at my diary this morning and it feels like reading a novel from another age. It is filled with parties, dinners, meetings, flower shows, festivals, holidays, trips to exhibitions, plays, lectures, birthdays, weekends by the sea. They are crossed out, struck through, the abandoned notes from another life.

As the world deals with the onslaught of the coronavirus, I am made dizzy by how swiftly our old lives have been dismantled. Already, the thought of sitting in a café with a book feels as exotic as sipping cocktails on your own tropical island. Watching television, it is strangely shocking to see people on screen shaking hands and hugging. My brain automatically screams TWO METRES APART NO TOUCHING. Normal social interaction looks as alien as foot binding. My best friend, a key worker, now has a special letter which allows her to use the Underground, yet only a few weeks ago we were celebrating her birthday in an east London pub, dancing and singing karaoke until our feet and throats hurt.

THE COMFORT OF BOOKS

I’ve been reading a lot – perhaps you have, too – reaching for the old, familiar and comforting stories. One of the books I’ve been inhaling is Mrs Miniver, by Jan Struther, the pen name of Joyce Maxtone Graham, who wrote a column for The Times in the late 1930s. Mrs Miniver describes the exquisite ordinariness of everyday life: buying a new engagement book in January, choosing a doll for her daughter’s birthday, family walks on Hampstead Heath, chrysanthemums in October, and then, as war loomed, acquiring gas masks for her young family.