It’s become so close, so secluded. Don’t mind the latter, but the crowding of life into a few modestly sized rooms is claustrophobic. Turn left for the work desk, right for the stereo, straight ahead to the canteen. I started distance therapy (providing, though I have a receiving session zoom scheduled). Two screens connected by electricity and radiation of some kind. I put on headphones and stare at the glass, straining to read signs that have suddenly changed font and size, listening to tones that are familiar yet different, noticing intrusive wonderings. What room of this person’s dwelling are we in? It is a surprise to realise that for all the detailed descriptions of lives and feelings, we never talk about wallpaper. About furniture. About working from bed. Have they gone silent or is it a screen freeze? What am I missing? Anxiety ripples like a chill breeze. A friend wrote that he’s teaching his eldest to cook, just in case Mum and Dad get ill. Jeez, we’d be in trouble, I think. Then realise the boy has done a couple of terms of Food Technology and has more in his repertoire than Dad. More skill. The son should surpass the father, as the sun outshines the moon. The moon, the big full Easter moon. How do people cling to medieval belief systems in a time like this? A desperate bulwark against despair, against futility, against vulnerability. I had a meltdown yesterday; yelled at the builder. He didn’t deserve it and the shame was intense. I want to buy him wine or beer or something to ease my discomfort. Water under the bridge, he says. But I need to say a tangible sorry and decide I’ll go out early tomorrow to the liquor supermarket. The house is still now… my son coughs in his bedroom. Our street is still, infrequent cars startle as midnight approaches. The city is brooding, compliant but edgy. A teenaged girl was fined by police while doing practice driving with her mum. You are too far from home, they said. Too far from home. I go outside and commune with the moon before bed.