Loneliness. Emptiness. Nine weeks of lockdown, and yet today is the day I feel most isolated. I hear of a visit to see a daughter and grandchild, at a safe distance, of course; a sharing of coffee and croissants, sitting in the garden at least two metres apart; many small things as restrictions are eased, oh, so slightly. Yet I have nowhere to go, no-one to visit. Not lonely as such, but acutely aware of the bubble I’m living in. And what about the people that are alone? The old people who live solitary lives, and have been deeply touched by the small gestures of kindness we have heard about over the last few weeks. Will they be forgotten now as people start to pick up the threads of their previous lives? Will their loneliness be even deeper in the future, having been touched by compassion, and then having it evaporate in the summer sun?