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Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.
It’s there, all over my head. I can feel it around and above my ears, like seaweed. It is both alien to me and intimate. At times I almost even like it.
Naturally, in such surroundings, one thinks of death a lot, even as one soaks up the sun. We’re all thinking about it a lot more than we used to, what with one thing and another.
Months of isolation have reduced my brains to mush.
But why do I engage with idiots, or people who are worse than idiots?
“Get a coronavirus test,” everyone tells me. But as getting a test involves getting out of bed, I am happy to sit this one out.
It is curiously intimate, using someone else’s computer.
When a curt nod from a neighbour transforms into a lockdown-breaking high-five.
When William Hartnell took on the role, he was two years younger than I am now. I had to have a little lie-down when I learned that.
With each successive nap, the brain takes longer than usual to distinguish between dream and waking reality.
There is no prospect of even a handshake, let alone a peck on the cheek, from man or woman, for the foreseeable future.