I’ve been in lockdown for over a month now, since our MD asked me to stay at home on March 11 as a precaution when I showed some cold symptoms. With some UK newspapers now reporting that the measures may stay in place for up to a year, that seems like aeons, with a century happening in each day of lockdown. The languid pace of domesticity juxtaposed to increasingly dramatic headlines and international multilateral webinars are making for a strange quality of time.

Boris Johnson nearly died, I think on Tuesday, during my 30 second commute to the kitchen to fix a cuppa. He nearly died in what is now the nerve centre of the pandemic in Europe. You couldn’t make it up. In an already fearful and fraught time, the UK was faced with the very real prospect of losing its prime minister. The anxiety was too much to bear when it was announced he had been moved to ICU...

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